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BAYOU TRISTE 


A STORY OF LOUISIANA 








/ 


BAYOU TBISTE 

A STORY OF 

LOUISIANA 


Josephine Hamilton Nicholls 



NEW YORK 

A. S. BARNES AND COMPANY 
1902 




THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 
Two Co««5 RtCfclvEO 

NOV, n 1902 

PNTfTV 

CLASS QS*x' No. 

<f-M «T Z- 

corv B. 


-v7 'i 


Copyright , 1902 

By A. S. Barnes and Company 
Published October , 1902 



UNIVEKSITY PRESS • JOHN WILSON 
AND SON • CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. 


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F OR those of the South who are 
familiar with Louisiana planta- 
tion life this story may while 
away an hour ; to those of the North 
who have not had the opportunity to 
know us it will give a brief insight 
into the happiest and most indepen- 
dent of lives. 

To the “New Orleans Times-Dem- 
ocrat ” and the “ Detroit Free Press ” 
acknowledgment is made for courteous 
permission to republish certain of the 
chapters appearing in this volume. 

Josephine Hamilton Nicholls. 







CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I. The Funeral 1 

II. The Match-Maker 13 

III. The Courtship 25 

IV. The Chaperon 38 

V. A Social Adviser 68 

VI. Uncle Ephr’um 78 

VII. At Madame Jean’s 103 

VIII. The Kunjerin’ of Sally- Ann . . 113 

IX. The Mistress of Oakwood . . . 128 

X. When the Waters Came up . . 141 

XI. Ma’ Jane’s Weddin’ l6l 

XII. The Sacrifice of Elijah . . . 1 69 

XIII. Six Months of Marriage . . . 201 

XIV. Good-bye 209 























































ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

“ Priscilla gathered up her brasses” . . 16 
" Mammy held out her hand ” . . . . 53 
“ f Huccum you poke fun at a pore old 

nigger ? ’ ” 98 

“ f Look — the bank is gone !’ ” .... 158 





























































































































































































































































































































































BAYOU TRISTE 

A STORT OF LOUISIANA 

I 

THE FUNERAL 

P | ^HE plantation bell jangled 
across the fields ; awhile later 
a dozen wagons rattled down 
the road to the bayou ; musical, deep- 
pitched voices shouted good-humoredly 
to restive mules ; then the big gate 
banged, startling me into resentful 
wakefulness. 

The sun was rising, and the strange 
peace of the early morning brooded 
over pasture and garden. 

I crept out of bed, threw a cape 
over my shoulders, and cautiously 
opened the window. Yard and field 
and distant swamp were enveloped in 
a pale fold of purple mist. The grass 
sparkled with dewdrops and the glossy 

1 [i] 


4HBayou TristeCC 


leaves of the crepe myrtle trees glis- 
tened faintly. 

The encircling live-oaks rioted with 
music, the chirp of wrens, the pert 
twitter of sparrows, the exquisite mel- 
ody of mocking-birds. From my old- 
fashioned garden floated the mingled 
fragrance of sweet olive, honeysuckle, 
and early roses. 

The far-away murmur of bells and 
the harsher echo of a butcher’s horn 
announced that the tiny village down 
the bayou was waking to a new day, 
and the call of cocks and anxious 
cackle of hens betrayed the poultry- 
yard’s impatience to be up and doing. 

Once a dog barked, and my fox 
terrier courteously responded ; then 
from some distant pasture a cow lowed, 
and a calf made mournful answer. 

The world was at its best, pure and 
still and tranquil, unmarred by the 
frictions and evil passions of the work- 
aday hours. I found mysell resolving, 
as I had often resolved before, to make 
[ 2 ] 


<1ThE FuNERALf 

a practice of early rising, and won- 
dering, as I had frequently wondered 
pityingly, how people who woke to 
the noise and fret of a city endured 
their lives. 

After drinking in the beauty and 
peace until prudence warned me to 
desist, I stole back to bed, feeling in 
some way strengthened by my silent 
communion with Nature. 

A step sounded beneath my window, 
a shuffling, deliberate step that I rec- 
ognized as Uncle Ephr’um’s. He was 
on his way to the milking-shed, for his 
buckets rattled as he moved. Evi- 
dently he was not in the best of 
humors ; his grumbling voice drifted 
in to me : 

“ Alius levin dat gate open ! Ivawnt 
tun my back widouten I fine de cows 
done got wid de calves. Huccum you 
ac so ? Youse farly honin fur a lickin’, 
you is. Jes you wait twelst I git you 
home an Ise gwineter lik you widin 
an eench of yo’ life.” 

[ 3 ] 


fUBAYOU TristeCI 


“ ’Tain my fault,” sniffed Joe in re- 
turn, “hits dat outdacious leetle red 
mar of Miss Mary’s ; she kin lif dat 
hook ez good ez a pusson kin. I ain’ 
bin nyar dat gate sence larst night.” 

“ Boy !” Uncle Ephr’um responded, 
“quit yo’ lyin’, what ain’ cevin no- 
boddy, an’ fotch dat stove wood ’fore 
I brains yo’ black hade.” 

Silence fell, broken shortly, however, 
by Flip’s frantic greeting of the butch- 
er’s cart, then doors began to open and 
shutters to swing back. 

Priscilla had arrived from her cabin 
in the pasture, and the day’s life had 
begun. 

A bar of sunshine slanted into my 
room, resting lovingly on the portrait 
over my mantel. It touched the girl’s 
white throat and played among the 
curls on her forehead ; it sparkled on 
the crystal candelabra and lingered a 
moment on the pile of old “ Littells ” 
under my table. 

Steps echoed down the hall, there 

[ 4 ] 


t 


*HThe Funeral^ 

was a quick knock, and the door opened 
to admit Priscilla with my early coffee. 
I knew at once that something of a 
pleasant nature had occurred ; her face 
wore that expression of solemn enjoy- 
ment characteristic of the negro when 
under the influence of emotion. 

“ What has happened ? ” I inquired. 

“ Zeke Coleman’s wife done dade,” 
she said. 

“Not Eetsey ? ” 

“ Yessum.” 

“ That strong, healthy creature ? It 
doesn’t seem possible.” 

“ Yessum ; dey say she tuk cole at 
Mattie Powler’s weddin’. Ole Aunt 
Lucy ’tended her, but ’t warnt no use ; 
she wuz marked from de fus.” 

“Nonsense, you ought to have had 
a doctor.” 

“ ’T warnt no use, Miss Mary. We 
done de bes’ we knowed how, — me an 
Aunt Lucy an’ Modeste Powler. We 
sot up all las’ night wid her, aprayin’ an 
’zortin’ an’ singin’ hymns, but she jes 
[ 5 ] 


CBayou ThisteC; 


lay dar, gittin’ weaker an weaker ’fore 
our eyes.” 

44 I dare say,” I cried. 44 Whoever 
heard of such cruelty? You know 
too that Doctor Starr will come at any 
hour.” 

44 Miss Mary, doctors is fur white 
folks ; Aunt Lucy Allen onderstans a 
nigger’s innerds bettern enny doctor 
roun’ hyar, an’ she done de bes she 
knowed, but Betsey Coleman wuz 
marked from de fus.” 

I returned my cup in silence, the 
hopelessness of argument being borne 
in upon me. 

“Zeke’s gwine ter give her a fus’- 
class funeral,” pursued Priscilla; “a 
twenty-dollar coffin an’ a white cash- 
mere shroud ; deys gwine ter git de 
hearse from town, an’ I hearn tell dey 
wuz ’termined ter ax Mr. Fred fur de 
barouche.” 

44 Where will they bury her ? ” 

44 On de plantation.” 

4 4 Oh, yes,” I said, for I had forgotten 

[ 6 ] 


CLThe Funeral^ 

that, as one of our old slaves, Betsey 
had the privilege of burial in the cleared 
space beyond our graveyard. 

“ Deys gwine ter hev two preachers, 
Brother Hicks from town an ole Uncle 
Boston from de Harrell Place.” 

“ Much it will help Betsey,” said I. 
“ If Zeke had been a kinder husband, 
and you people had had the sense to 
send for a doctor, there would n’t have 
been any need for all this foolishness.” 

“Foolishness, Miss Mary? You 
sholy ain’ meanin’ dat ? ” 

“ Yes, I do too. Poor Betsey, she 
was the best creature living.” 

“You ain’ got enny ole black skirt 
ter giv me, hez you, Miss Mary ? ” 
asked Priscilla, following her own train 
of thought. 

“Why?” demanded I. “You are 
not one of the family.” 

“No ’m, but dey axed me ter see ter 
things ginerelly ; ’sides, Ise president of 
De United Band of Good Samaritans, 
an’ wese gwine ter tun out.” 

[ 7 ] 


H Bayou TristeCI 


“ You can have my blazer suit,” I 
replied reluctantly, for her excited 
mood fretted me. “ Now do go on, for 
at this rate we ’ll never have breakfast.” 

A moment later I heard voices in 
the yard and my brother’s window 
opened. 

“ Who ’s there ? ” he asked. 

“ Me, Marse Fred ; Zeke Coleman.” 

“ Well, what do you want? ” 

“ A order fur forty dollars,” in tones 
of unction. 

“ Forty dollars ? nearly all you have 
left of your grinding wages ; what on 
earth do you want with it ? ” 

“ My wife ’s done dade ; yessir, died 
las’ night ; an’ seein’ ez she wuz ole Jim 
Robinson’s darter, an’ deys a famly 
what ’s sot on fine funerals, I ’lowed ez 
dey should n’ hev no chance ter sputify 
de sen’ off what I gives Betsey.” 

“Now, Zeke,” said the boyish voice, 
“ all this fuss and feathers won’t do 
Betsey any good, and you’ve got a 
houseful of little children to think 
[ 8 ] 


Cf The FuneralCI 

about ; so you just give her an every- 
day sort of funeral, and if people make 
remarks you can send them to me.” 

Further conversation followed, but 
Fred was firm in his refusal to advance 
the money, and when Priscilla came in 
later I recognized that she was in any- 
thing but a pleasant frame of mind. 

“ Deys jes’ gwine ter hev a cotton 
shroud an a six-dollar coffin ! ” she 
said contemptuously. “ Lor ! ef we ’d 
knowed dat dis mornin’ de Good Sa- 
maritans would n’t hev tunned out at 
all.” 

“ Priscilla ! ” said I frigidly, “ you ’re 
a perfect snob, and I ’m ashamed of 
you.” 

That afternoon, as Fred and I were 
riding across the fields, we met Betsey’s 
funeral procession toiling down the 
“ big road ” to the graveyard. 

The barouche, containing the sor- 
rowing relatives (whose grief was 
somewhat mitigated by their sense of 
importance), followed the hearse ; be- 
[ 9 ] 


/ 


C^Bayou TristeH 

hind came the plantation negroes ; and 
last, but by no means least, the United 
Band of Good Samaritans, with Pris- 
cilla at their head — Priscilla looking 
so stylish in my blazer suit that I 
straightway repented my generosity. 

The entire procession was singing 
(or chanting rather) a weird strain that 
haunted me for days. The chorus I 
have never forgotten : 

“ Frum dis worl’ of sin ter de skies above, 

Frum dis worl’ of pain ter de good Lord’s 
love ! ” 

Over the bare fields floated the mu- 
sical sounds, broken now and then by 
an hysterical “ Glory ! Glory ! ” from 
Priscilla, while in the dingy old vehicle 
ahead lay Betsey, unconscious of and 
indifferent to the ceremonies in her 
honor. 

“ Mary,” said Fred the next morn- 
ing at breakfast, “ Zeke Coleman has 
‘ vamoosed the ranch ’ ; or, in language 
more intelligible to you, has deserted 
his children.” 


[ 10 ] 


<1The FuneralCI; 

I stared at him in amazement. 

“He collected what was owing to 
him last night, ostensibly to buy sup- 
plies and to settle an old debt ; instead 
of which he went to Ramon, took the 
late train to New Orleans, and has dis- 
appeared, nobody knows whither.” 

“ What a shame ! ” I cried, 44 now 
who will take care of those poor little 
creatures ? ” 

44 Oh, as to that,” he said, “ Modeste 
and Dicey have already taken them in 
charge, and of course I shall see that 
they are fed.” 

He sauntered out of the room just 
as Priscilla came in to wash the silver. 

I immediately grew eloquent over 
Zeke’s misconduct, but she treated 
the subject with the delightful philoso- 
phy that is so frequently displayed over 
other people’s misfortunes. 

4 4 Now don’ you be frettin’ over dem 
chillun,” she said ; 44 dey ain’ gwine ter 
starve dese days.” 

44 Will you help with them ? ” I asked. 

[ii ] 


/ 


HBayou Triste<1 

“You seemed so intimate with the 
family/’ 

“ I ’d like ter,” she replied ; “ I ’d 
sholy like ter, but Ise got duties ter 
my own chillun which don’ allow of 
no mixin’ up wid oder folkses.” 

“ The Good Samaritans, then, — 
perhaps they will do something ? ” 

Priscilla looked at me compassion- 
ately. 

“ Miss Mary,” said she, in the tone 
one employs to an ignorant but well- 
loved child. “You don’ onderstan’; 
de Good Samaritans don’ do nothin’ 
fur you whilest youse livin’, deys ’soci- 
ated fur de spress purpose of honorin’ 
you arfter youse dade.” 


[ 12 ] 


II 


THE MATCH-MAKER 

P RISCILLA was rubbing the 
brasses and I was sitting on the 
back gallery watching her. Pris- 
cilla, I regret to say, did not live her 
life according to biblical instruction, 
“ not with eye service, as men 
pleasers,” for I noted that the most of 
her good work was accomplished under 
the spell of my inspiring presence. 

As she rubbed and polished she in- 
terpolated remarks, some of a purely 
indifferent character, others full of mys- 
terious and doubtless weighty meaning. 

I read calmly on, now glancing at 
the fenders, now letting my gaze wan- 
der over the yard where Flip was quar- 
relling with an old shoe. His perfectly 
superfluous activity fretted me, and 
instantly recalled a remark of Fred’s 
to the effect “ that the sight of other 
[ 13 ] 


<1 Bayou TristeC, 


people’s energy always nerved him to 
— idleness.” 

In an unwary moment I looked at 
Priscilla, caught her eye, and straight- 
way fell a victim to her confidences. 

“ Yessum,” she said, pausing to 
straighten the head handkerchief poised 
rakishly over her left eye ; “ I ain’ sayin’ 
nothin’ aginst Modeste Powler, but 
youse bleeged ter ’low, Miss Mary, dat 
dem gals of hern ain’ half so good-look- 
in’ ez my Sally or Dicey Jones’ Lucy.” 

I acquiesced, for there was no deny- 
ing the truth of her statement. 

“ Well, I reckon we ain’ de onliest 
ones what thinks so ; but Modeste 
Powler hez done married dem gals ter 
de two bes’ matches on de place. 
Jeems Hewett, Mattie’s husband, ’sa 
settled man wid money in de bank, an’ 
Frank Barnes, what married Cynthy, 
gits a dollar ’n a quarter a day, an’ Mr. 
Fred ’lows him ter keep a cow an’ horse 
in de plantation parstures.” 

“Because Frank stuck to him through 
[ 14 ] 


CL T HE MaTC H-M AKER CL 

the 4 strike I said impressively. Pris- 
cilla ignored my comment. 

4 4 1 wants ter know what Modeste 
Powler duz ? ” she went on ; 44 hit’s jes 
like ‘kunjerin’,’ Miss Mary, hit sholy 
is.” 

44 They were very nice girls,” I ven- 
tured. 

Priscilla sniffed. 

44 ’T warnt dat, Miss Mary, dey didn’ 
hev nothin’, ter do wid hit. Modeste 
done hit herself ; she ’s already kotched 
two good matches on de place, an’ now 
she ’s sot her eye on Davy Masters fur 
Jinny ! ” 

44 Davy ? ” I exclaimed, scarcely won- 
dering at Priscilla’s indignation, for he 
was the most eligible bachelor on the 
plantation. 

44 Yessum; an’ Jinny’s a little no- 
count nigger gal, what ain’ fitten fur 
nothin’. I reckon,” with withering 
sarcasm, 44 he ain’ waited all dis time 
fur her I ” 

44 It often happens like that,” I re- 
[ 15 ] 


HBayou Triste<H 


marked unconsolingly. “ By the way,” 
looking in the direction of the yard- 
gate, “ yonder comes Modeste now.” 

Priscilla gathered up her brasses, 
“ Ise gwine ter put dese back,” she 
said, and disappeared just as Modeste 
came lumbering up the steps. 

She was a tall, ungainly woman, as 
black as the ace of spades, slow of 
speech and usually accounted slow of 
intellect, with a cheerful smile and a 
confiding manner that was exceedingly 
gratifying to your self-esteem. She 
gave you the impression of standing 
mentally in awe of you, and by her 
attitude disposed you favorably towards 
her at once. 

As she sat down on the step and 
began mopping her face with her blue- 
checked apron, Priscilla’s suspicions of 
“ kunjerin’ ” seemed singularly inap- 
propriate. 

“ How ’s your garden, Modeste ? ” I 
asked, by way of opening the con- 
versation. 


[ 16 ] 





















€f T he Matc h-M AKER €f 

“Right smart, thank you, Miss Mary. 
I fotched you a mess of green peas,” 
removing the cover from a small tin 
bucket ; “ an nex’ week I ’lows to fetch 
you some butter beans.” 

“Thank you very much,” I said. 
“Priscilla,” as that worthy appeared, 
“ take these peas to the pantry and fill 
Modeste’s bucket with sugar. The 
key is on the post.” 

Priscilla swept up, and the “ Evenin’, 
Sister Powler,” and the “Evenin’, Sister 
Wilson,” that followed reminded me 
forcibly of the greeting between two 
pugilists. 

When Priscilla had gone I remarked 
tentatively, “ I hear Jinny is going to 
be married.” 

Modeste’s indifferent manner would 
have done credit to any society dame. 
“ Yessum,” she said, without any ex- 
pression of satisfaction even momen- 
tarily lighting up her features. 

“ Is it true that Davy is to be the 
bridegroom ? ” 

2 


[ 17 ] 


f Bayou Triste f 

“Yessum,” with even less anima- 
tion. 

The monosyllabic reply tried my 
patience. 

I longed to hear more of the affair, 
to see some sign of gratification from 
Modeste, to know she felt elated even 
though she did not show it ; but dignity 
forbade further questioning. Perhaps 
she felt this, for she turned slowly 
around. 

“ Davy said he warn’t never gwine 
ter marry,” she observed. 

“ He reckoned without you,” I 
replied. 

“ I never sets eye on a man fur 
nothin’,” she said. “ Dar wuz Jeems 
Hewett — a widower — - set aginst mar- 
ryin’ agin. I choosed him fur Mattie 
de fus’ day he sot foot on de planta- 
tion. Den dar wuz Frank Barnes, he 
wuz hangin’ roun’ Priscilla’s Sally right 
smart like ; when I heerd tell ’bout his 
horse an’ cow I ’spicioned he ’d do fur 
Cynthy. Den dar wuz Davy Mas- 
[ 18 ] 


H The Matc h-M akeiiC [ 

ters — ” She paused, but her smile 
said all the rest. 

I gazed at her in speechless admira- 
tion. Priscilla said “ she had sot her 
eye on Davy,” and it seemed she was 
not far wrong. 

Through the kitchen window floated 
Priscilla s voice : 

“ When de hyart is sad ’t is a jye ter know 

Dere ’s a better worl’ dan dis worl’ below.” 

I smiled involuntarily and Modeste 
listened with a pensive air ; evidently 
she had no qualms of conscience. 

“ Do you mean,” I said, “ that you 
actually decide a long time ahead who 
you want your girls to marry ? ” 

“Yessum, an hit’s de right thing; 
dere ain’ no mistakes den.” 

In some mysterious way she had 
caught the spirit of the old French 
regime, and was in thorough sympathy 
with the manage de convenance . 

Priscilla’s tones rang out with in- 
creased earnestness : — 

[ 19 ] 


<1Bayou TristeCL 


“ Dough de sinners thrive in dis worl* of sin, 

Sain’ Peter ain’ gwine fur ter let ’em in ! ” 

“Well, but it’s one thing to pick 
out a man,” I observed, “ and another 
to have him do what you want.” 

“ Lor’ ! Miss Mary, I warn’t born 
yistedday, an arfter I makes up my 
mine ’bout him, I axes him ’roun’ Sun- 
day nights. I reckon you ain’ forgot 
how I kin cook ? ” 

“ I certainly have n’t,” I replied, 
recalling childish trips to her cabin, 
and the coffee and biscuits that had 
gladdened my youthful appetite. 

“Well, I ’members all I useter 
know, an’ spare-ribs an’ chine an’ pig’s- 
feet ain’ gwine abeggin’ arfter I gits 
thru handlin’ ’em.” 

“Modeste,” said I, in low, awe- 
struck tones, “is that what you do 
with your pigs ? ” 

“ Yessum, an’ some folks say hit’s a 
norful wase, but I dunno.” 

“ An excellent investment ! ” said I, 
and my mind went back to the chafing- 
[20 ] 


«H The Match-Maker ft 

dish parties and petits-soupers that 
some of my acquaintances indulged in. 
Their methods, I could not but admit, 
were strikingly similar. 

“Do you invite any girls ? ” I de- 
manded. 

Modeste looked at me reproachfully. 

“ What I gwine ax enny gals fur, 
Miss Mary ? No ’m ; I suttenly never 
killed my pigs fur a passel of no-count 
nigger gals. W omens is curious things, 
ennyhow, deys ongrateful all thru. 
You duz fur a man an you knows 
whar you is, but you duz fur a woman 
an’ whar is you ? ” 

I nodded appreciatively. Modeste’s 
analysis though crude was effective. 

“ Chine and pig’s-feet and spare-ribs,” 
I repeated thoughtfully, for I wished to 
retail the menu to Fred later. “Was 
that all, Modeste ? ” 

“ Yessum, ceppen todes de las’, when 
things wuz kinder settlin’ down, Tom 
fotched out he whiskey bottle.” 

I looked at Modeste, gaunt and 

[ 21 ] 


^ Bayou Triste<H 

black and awkward, and did homage 
to her talents. How could Priscilla 
and Dicey Jones cope with such an 
intellect? I had it in my heart to pity 
them, the contest was such an unequal 
one. 

“Well, Miss Mary,” said Modeste, 
rising, “ Ise bleeged ter be gwine. I 
jes drapped in ter say ‘ Howdy.’ ” 

“ Modeste,” said I, longing in my 
humble way to show recognition of 
her successful campaign, “tell Jinny 
she can have my old white silk for her 
wedding-dress if she will come for it.” 

“ Thank you, Miss Mary. I tole 
Jinny you would n’ furgit her.” 

“ By the way,” said I, “ don’t neg- 
lect to stop at the kitchen for your 
bucket.” 

A few minutes later I saw her mov- 
ing slowly down the “ big road ” to 
the quarters. 

Priscilla’s song had ceased ; evi- 
dently the thought of joys in another 
world did not wholly compensate her 
[ 22 ] 


T H E MaTC H-M AKER €£ 

for the trials and disappointments of 
this one. 

Her youngest son, a Benjamin of 
four, having come within injudicious 
range of her wrath, was requested to 
quit the kitchen at once unless he 
wanted her to “ brain him with a coal,” 
and the pans and pots flew about in a 
way that was anything but orthodox. 

Fred, coming whistling up the steps, 
called to me to know what had ruffled 
the serene spirit of our handmaid. 

“Modeste has been here,” I ex- 
plained. “ Jinny is going to marry 
Davy Masters, and Priscilla feels it 
keenly.” 

“ Davy going to be married ? ” ex- 
claimed my brother. “ Good for little 
Jinny.” 

“ Jinny ! ” said I scornfully ; “ much 
she had to do with it.” 

“ What is troubling you, Mary ? ” 
cried Fred. “ You look pensive.” 

“ I am mentally prostrate.” 

“ Before whom ? ” 

[ 23 ] 


HBayou TristeH 


“ Modeste Powler.” 

“ Modeste ! Do you think she had 
anything to do with that match ? 
Why, she ’s as dull as ditch-water.” 

“ Dull,” I echoed scornfully ; “ my 
good sir, you don’t know the meaning 
of the word.” 


[ 24 ] 


Ill 


THE COURTSHIP 

I WAS conversing with Priscilla 
on the subject of cobwebs, — a 
conversation not altogether of a 
pleasant character, for she had just 
informed me that she “was too busy 
keepin’ her soul clean ter keep de 
house clean,” and I was about to 
make a fitting response, — when Char- 
lotte Deals, old Peter Deals’ daughter, 
appeared in the door. 

Charlotte was a weazened little 
creature with a pathetic expression 
that always appealed to me, so when 
I saw her hesitating in the door I 
straightway forgot my grievances and 
called to her to come in. 

She wore a blue calico skirt, a pink 
silk waist that had once been mine, and 
a man’s overcoat. 

[ 25 ] 


€[Bayou TristeC[ 


Her shoes were laced with white 
strings, and her hair wrapped in in- 
numerable twists over her head. Alto- 
gether she was not picturesque-looking, 
and, as much as I liked her, I was fain 
to confess that her appearance left 
much to be desired. 

But I was always glad to see her, 
for in the gay, lighted-hearted past 
she had been the only 44 quarters ” 
child I was allowed to play with, and 
the memory of glorious blackberry 
parties and crayfishing expeditions 
successfully engineered by her was 
with me still. 

Priscilla did not approve of Char- 
lotte ; she said she was 44 common,” 
that old Peter was 44 de no-countedest 
nigger on de place, an her ma — ” 

44 Not a word against Ellen,” I 
would always break in. 44 She was 
with grandmother when she died, and 
mother told me that no friend could 
have been kinder.” 

So Charlotte continued to call on 

[ 26 ] 


CtTHE Courtship® 

me, sometimes to bring me a water- 
melon or a bucket of berries, some- 
times merely to say “ Howdy,” and now 
and then to unburden her heart of its 
woes. 

For hers was not a path of roses. 
The negro women on the plantation 
were as ready to laugh at failure as 
their more cultivated superiors are, and 
Charlotte, clumsy, slow, and timid, 
was a legitimate target for their 
ridicule. 

To-day I guessed she had come to me 
for sympathy, so dismissing Priscilla 
— who departed sniffing — I invited 
Charlotte onto the front gallery, where 
she might talk at her ease. 

“ What ’s the matter now ? ” I asked, 
sitting down on the steps and leaning 
my head against a pillar ; “ has any one 
been worrying you ? ” 

Charlotte hesitated : 

“ Deys all mad aginst me,” she said ; 
“ dey sho is rarin, but dis time hit 
don mek no diffrunce.” 

[27 ] 


H Bayou TristeH 


“It does n’t ? ” said I approvingly. 
“ Well, I ’m glad to hear it ; you know 
how often I ’ve told you it was silly to 
mind them. What ’s the trouble ? ” 

My glance had strayed away, but as 
Charlotte made no immediate reply I 
turned in some surprise to look at her. 

“ Charlotte,” cried I, “ what has hap- 
pened?” For her black face fairly 
beamed and her dull eyes shone with 
a great happiness. 

“ Miss Mary,” she said in a shaking 
voice, “Ise ingaged ter be married.” 

Now, I had always known that to 
betray surprise over an announcement 
of this kind, no matter how amazing 
it might be, was exceedingly bad form, 
and among my friends I had hitherto 
managed to remember this rule ; but 
when Charlotte’s news fell upon my 
incredulous ears I regret to say that 
my good-breeding suddenly failed me. 

“ Engaged ? ” I repeated, staring. 
“To whom?” (“Some perfect terror,” 
I thought disgustedly.) 

[ 28 ] 


H The Courtship^ 

“Ter Lincoln Wilson,” she answered. 

“ Lincoln,” I cried ; “ not Priscillas 
Lincoln ? ” 

“ Yessum.” 

“ Oh, sweet revenge ! ” I murmured, 
“ ‘ The mills of the gods grind slowly, 
but they grind exceeding small.’ ” 

“ Ma’am ? ” said Charlotte. 

“ Nothing,” I replied ; “ tell me how 
it happened.” For that Lincoln, Pris- 
cilla’s pride and boast, — Lincoln, who 
taught school on the Harrell place, 
and who was studying to be a 
“ preacher,” — should contemplate mar- 
rying old Peter Deals’ Charlotte, 
seemed well-nigh incredible. 

“ Tell me about it,” I said. 

“ Hit happened like dis,” said Char- 
lotte. “ Ma ’s sister Dinah, — you 
members Dinah, Miss Mary ? ” 

I nodded. Was I likely to forget 
her ! She of the oily tongue and 
elastic conscience, whose short-lived 
reign over my laundry had driven me 
almost to despair. 

[ 29 ] 


f Bayou Triste*! 


“ Well, mas sister Dinah, what lives 
on de Harrell place, tuk seeck, an’ 
sont over ter ma ter sen one of we-all 
gals ter nuss her.” 

“ And the others would n’t go and 
you did ? ” I broke in. 

“ Why, yessum,” cried Charlotte. 
“ Now, how did you know ? ” 

“ I just guessed it, go on — this is a 
story with a moral.” 

Charlotte very wisely paid no atten- 
tion to me but pursued her narrative : 

“ Well, I went, an’ Lor’ knows I seed 
sights wid her. She ’s a church mem- 
ber, but hit don’ seem ter mek no 
diffrunce, an’ her langwidge sho wuz 
contraptious. 

“ One night she tuk hit in her hade 
she ’d like ter see a preacher, ’n when 
I lowed dere wuznt none I cud git, 
she sez Lincoln Wilson, what taught 
school in de cabin back of de sugar- 
house, wuz lamin’ ter be one, an’ he ’d 
do bettern nothin’, so I went overn 
got him” — she paused and drew a 
[30 ] 


<H The Courtship t 

long breath. “ Hez yon ever seed 
him, Miss Mary ? ” 

“ Not for a long time.” 

“ He wears sto’ close an a shinin’ 
collar, an’ a tie wid a dimon’ pin, an’ he 
talks book talk what I kawnt mek no 
sense out of.” 

“ Ah ! he must be up to date,” said 
I ; “to be incomprehensible is to be 
clever nowadays.” 

“ Ma’am ? ” said Charlotte. 

“ Nothing ; go on.” 

“ Well, he cum like I axed him, an’ 
he read reel cumfortin’ like outn de 
Bible, ’bout the prodigy son an’ de 
century man what sez ter one man 
‘ cum ’ an’ he cumd, an’ ter anoder 
pusson ‘ go ’ an’ he goed, an’ den Aunt 
Dinah gun ter snore in de middle of 
de chapter, an’ Lincoln he close de 
book an’ axed me ter set by de fire an’ 
tell him ’bout you-alls and de folks at 
us house an’ he ma an’ de chillun.” 

“ Which of course you did ? ” 

“ Yessum ; an’ de nex’ night he cum 
[31 ] 


C^Bayou TristeH 


agin’, an’ den every night fur three 
weeks. I ’lowed ez he wuz reel good 
ter Aunt Dinah, but she say now dat 
she ’spicioned frum de fus dat he hed 
he eye on me.” 

“ Did you think so too, Charlotte ? ” 

“ Oh, go long, Miss Mary,” she said. 
“ What he gwine look at me fur ? I 
ain’ no fancy nigger ; I kawnt do nothin’ 
but clean house an’ cook an’ wash.” 

“ That ’s a good deal,” I said admir- 
ingly ; “ good looks, you know, are only 
skin-deep.” 

“ Dey goes a long way,” she an- 
swered, with the wistfulness of one 
who had never known beauty ; “ how- 
somever, hit’s all de same now.” 

“ Did you talk much, Charlotte ? ” 
I asked, thirsting to know the methods 
which had procured her the “ catch ” 
of the Harrells’ quarters. 

“No’m, I ain’ sayin’ nothin’. I 
jes’ sot an’ listent whilest he argified.” 

“You let him see how smart you 
thought he was.” 

[ 32 ] 


^ The Courtship H 

“ Oh, yessum.” 

My gaze rested thoughtfully on Char- 
lotte ; had I not, after all, underrated 
her? 

“ Kate was right,” I observed ; “ she 
said a pot of incense was more effective 
than anything else, and I believe she 
knew.” 

“ Ma’am ? ” said Charlotte. 

“ What did he say when he asked 
you to marry him ? ” 

“Hit wuz kinder suddint, Miss Mary. 
I wuz cookin’ a possum what Mr. Rafe 
Harrell shot in he hin-house an’ sont 
ter Aunt Dinah. I wuz bakin’ hit wid 
sweet ’taters, an’ hit sho did smell good. 
Lincoln he sez ter me, sez he, ‘ Char- 
lotte, you ain’ nothin’ on looks, an’ I 
’lows folks ’ll spect me ter do better, 
but you sho duz know how ter cook. 
Charlotte,’ sez he, an’ he cum over ter 
de hyarth whar I wuz stand in’, ‘ Ise 
bin onsettled in my mine ’bout you fur 
a long time, but Ise ’cided now ; will 
you hev me ? ’ ” 

3 [ 33 ] 


€£ Bayou Triste€£ 


“ And did you say ‘ yes ’ at once ? ,r 
I asked, hoping to hear of some exhi- 
bition of spirit. 

“ Yessum,” said Charlotte. “I sho 
wuz glad ter git him, an’ ef a gal wants 
ter marry a feller huccome she play 
like she don’ wan’ him ? ” 

“ I don’t know why,” I said mus- 
ingly. “When do you expect to be 
married ? ” 

“Nex’ week; T ’lowed ez hit wuz 
bes’ ter hev hit right off ’fore he kin 
change he mine.” 

“ O Charlotte,” I exclaimed, “ you 
ought n’t to be so suspicious.” 

“ Miss Mary, ” replied Charlotte, “ ef 
I wuz good-lookin’, like you, I reckon 
I would n’ be afeered ; but, bein’ ez hit 
is, Ise gwine ter run things thru — ” 

“ Have you told Priscilla yet ? ” 

“No’m,” and into her eyes came an 
expression that boded ill for Priscilla ; 
“but Ise gwine ter, an’ dere ain’ no 
use of her rarin’, kase I tends to marry 
Lincoln, no matter what he ma sez.” 

[ 34 ] 


<HThe Courtship^ 

I arose and invited Charlotte indoors, 
and when she departed a few minutes 
later she carried a bundle of my cast- 
off finery. 

On her way out she stopped at the 
kitchen to break the tidings to her 
future mother-in-law. 

I meanwhile had fled to the garden, 
knowing that Priscilla would soon 
seek me to rave against Charlotte, and 
I disappeared, hoping thereby to escape 
her. 

Vain thought ! 

I was stretched on a bench, staring 
through the branches at the soft sky 
overhead, when the garden-gate clicked, 
and down the path, her head-handker- 
chief tilted to one side, her eyes flam- 
ing, came the bridegroom’s mother. 

“ Priscilla,” I cried, collecting all my 
moral strength to grapple with her. “ I 
won’t hear a word against Charlotte ! ” 

“Miss Mary,” said Priscilla, in a 
voice of concentrated bitterness, “ dat 
gal’s done hoodooed my boy. He 
[ 35 ] 


C Bayou TristeCL 

never ’d looked at her widout hit. 
She’s done kunjered him.” 

“Nonsense, all mothers think that. 
To tell you the truth, I think Charlotte 
is more to be pitied than your son. 
From what I hear he must be a very 
vain fellow, and that kind does n’t usu- 
ally make good husbands.” 

“ Miss Mary ! ” wailed Priscilla. 

“ Yes, I mean it ; now do go away, 
you make my head ache.” 

So Priscilla departed, vowing ven- 
geance and swearing to break off the 
match, but she reckoned without her 
host. Charlotte, having tasted the 
sweets of victory, fought nobly for her 
rights, and in the end won the day. 

She was married in the big ware- 
house on the bayou, and, as Fred and 
I both approved of the bride, we made 
it a very grand affair indeed. 

Priscilla was not present, Lincoln’s 
mesalliance proving too severe a blow 
to her pride. 

For some time after the marriage 
[ 36 ] 


«LT he Courtship 

she held coldly aloof, but last week 
Fred gave Charlotte an opossum he 
had killed in the stable, and Priscilla 
told me next day she had been invited 
to partake of it. 

44 An’ dat gal sho’ do know how ter 
cook,” she observed. 

I repeated the conversation later to 
Fred. 

44 Praise from Sir Hubert,” he com- 
mented. 

44 They will be reconciled,” said I. 
“Priscilla is of the earth earthy, and 
Charlotte knows it.” 

44 Charlotte,” he remarked, 44 is not 
clever, and yet — ” 

“ Real cleverness,” I said, 44 is com- 
prehension of the situation.” 

4 4 Or the individual,” suggested he. 

44 Yes.” 

44 From a woman’s point of view, 
Mary.” 

44 And that,” said I, 44 is sure to be 
the right one.” 


[ 37 ] 


IV 


THE CHAPERON 
HEN I opened the window 



and a delicious rush of fra- 
grance swept in, I said aloud 


and with a little sigh of rapture : 

“ Ah, if only Kate were here ! ” 

“ Kate ! ” cried Fred, who was seated 
on the back gallery doctoring Flip’s 
paw, “ why, you could n’t pay her to 
leave town.” 

“ I don’t see why, now that Lent 
has come.” 

“ As if that counts ! ” 

“ But it does ; you never do Kate 
justice, Fred. She may be fond of 
society and all that kind of thing, but 
I hardly wonder, considering how pop- 
ular she is.” 

“Nor I; therefore don’t try to 
transport her to these wilds.” 

“ But she loves the country.” 


[ 38 ] 


<1The ChaperonC[ 

“ Her idea of the country is a per- 
petual house-party. If I thought she 
would enjoy our life here, I would have 
a very different opinion of her.” 

Kate was our cousin and an especial 
favorite of mine, so that Fred’s com- 
ments were by no means well received. 

“ She ’s charming,” he went on, “ and 
if I were worth a million or if the plan- 
tation were out of debt, I might let 
myself see her through your eyes ; but 
as it is — ” he drew a long breath and 
gave Flip’s paw a thoughtful pat. 

I stood at the window staring, the 
possibility of Fred’s caring for Kate 
never having entered my head. I was 
about to voice my surprise when Joe, 
our small factotum, sauntered round 
the corner of the house. 

Fred immediately accosted him. 

“ Have you curried Gypsey, Joe ? ” 

“ No, sir, I was jes’ fixin’ ter do hit.” 

“ Ah, indeed ! and fed the cows ? ” 

“ N ot yit, Mass Fred. I wuz bleeged 
ter go ter town fur Aunt Sylla, ’an de 
[ 39 ] 


H Bayou TristeCI 


tellygraf man hailed me ez I was passin’ 
an guv me dis fur you.” 

“Dis” was a telegram, but Fred 
opened it leisurely and I looked on 
without alarm, for we were alone in 
the world and the yellow envelope 
was not likely to contain ill news. 

“It’s from Kate,” cried Fred, “to 
you, Mary ; I did n’t notice when I 
opened it.” 

“Will be out on noon train ; bored 
to death in town.” 

“ Is n’t that like her ? ” I cried. “ I 
wrote and asked her last week ; now 
sir,” triumphantly, “ what have you to 
say for yourself ? ” 

“ It ’s a caprice,” he replied ; “ she ’ll 
be flying home again in no time. 
Well, I must be gettinginto the fields. 
Don’t wait breakfast for me.” 

“Yes I shall, so don’t you dare to 
be late ; I ’m hungry now. Priscilla,” 
at the top of my voice. “ O Priscilla,” 
as she appeared in the door; “catch 
the little red rooster and one of those 
[ 40 ] 


Cl The ChaperonH 

white pullets. Miss Kate Faulkner 
is coming out from town to-day.” 

“You don sesso!” she cried cor- 
dially, for fortunately inhospitality is 
not one of my follower’s too numerous 
failings. “ You Joe, Jim, Benjie ! 
Whar on airth is them boys ? ” 

“ In the stable, of course ; I see Joe 
now. You Joe, come here this minute. 
Priscilla wants you to catch the 
chickens for dinner.” 

“ Kin we take Flip, Miss Mary ? ” 

“ Certainly not, he has hurt his paw.” 
I went indoors and presently wild 
cackling followed by a series of agonized 
squawks announced the triumphant 
conclusion of the hunt. 

My mind was therefore at rest on 
one point, and by the time Fred re- 
turned I had arranged such a credit- 
able menu that even Priscilla, who 
did not believe in prophesying smooth 
things, was gracious enough to say 
that I might in time “ larn how ter 
keep house.” 


[41 ] 


CIBayou Triste€L 


When the noon train pulled into 
the station Fred was waiting on the 
platform, while I remained in the car- 
riage to hold the reins. It seemed to 
me he had been gone an interminable 
time, and I had just resigned myself to 
believing that Kate had failed us, when 
down the steps, looking the picture of 
graceful, beautiful youth, came our 
cousin. 

I had always thought her the pret- 
tiest creature in the world, and I 
thought so more than ever when I saw 
the flush on her cheek, the light in her 
eyes as she rushed to meet me. 

“You dear old thing,” she cried, 
springing in beside me ; “I can’t hug 
you, because those stupid people are 
too near, but just wait until we reach 
home ! ” 

Home ! I glanced at Fred, and 
though he seemed absorbed in the dis- 
position of Kate’s traps I felt sure he 
had heard. 

“ So you were bored to death,” I 
[ 42 ] 


CL The Chaperon CL 

said, looking searchingly into her 
eyes. “What change has come over 
the spirit of your dream ? ” 

“ People, my dear girl. Town was 
all right, but I ’ve seen too much of my 
kind lately. Why, what has become 
of the old Rainot house ? It used 
to stand there.” 

“You remember it?” asked Fred 
in surprise. 

“Remember it? Why, of course. 
Dear me,” as we crossed the ramp 
by the saw-mill, “ how high the 
bayou is.” 

“Awfully so!” said Fred. “Who 
knows, we may be able to show you 
a crevasse before you go back. Noth- 
ing like new sensations, they say.” 

Kate looked at him pensively. 
“Does he often get like that?” she 
asked. 

Fred laughed in spite of himself, and 
when a few minutes later we turned 
in at our own gates he said with 
his accustomed cheerfulness, “ Here 
[ 43 ] 


C^Bayou Triste Cf 


we are, Kate. Remember ! who enters 
Southmeade leaves society behind.” 

“ Thank Heaven ! ” she replied, and 
in her voice there was a ring of genuine 
relief. 

“ I know you will be sorry,” I said 
to her an hour or so later, “ but Fred 
is obliged to go to Ramon to-night, 
so you and I will be left lamenting.” 

Kate was seated at the window and 
for a moment she made no reply, then 
she said in a curiously hesitating way 
and with apparent irrelevance : 

“Did that silly little Jimmy Barnett 
tell your brother I was engaged to 
Lieutenant Carew ? ” 

“ Jimmy Barnett ? Lieutenant 
Carew ? I’m sure I don’t know ; is 
it true, Kate ? ” 

“ Of course not ; who ever heard of 
such a thing ? But that foolish little 
Jimmy very impertinently went round 
saying so, and among other people 
he told me he had written it to your 
brother.” 

[ 44 ] 


HThe Chaperon^ 

“ He probably said that to tease 
you. Fred never told me anything 
about it.” 

“Well, I only mentioned it as an 
example of what we can do in town. 
So,” springing up, “ you and I are to 
be left in our glory ; two lone ladies 
with no one to say us ‘Nay.’” 

“ Alone ? Do you think I ’m crazy ! 
Why, I should die of fright ; besides, 
Fred wouldn’t hear to such a thing. 
No, Aunt Margaret is coming up to 
stay with us.” 

“ To be our chaperon ! Dear old 
Mammy Margaret, how well I re- 
member her.” 

“You needn’t laugh,” I said. “I 
suspect she has more correct ideas than 
many a society leader.” 

“ My dear girl, let us hope so.” 

“Listen,” I said. “Wheels! that 
must be Mammy now. You know I 
always send the carriage for her on 
occasions like this ; it is a sort of official 
recognition of her status.” 

[ 45 ] 


«n Bayou T n i s t e Ct 


Dear old Mammy. I have only to 
close my eyes to see again the little 
bent figure, the wrinkled black face, 
and kindly eyes that never looked any- 
thing but affection on her children. 

When Kate and I reached the 
gallery she had just been helped up the 
steps by Joe, who stood in great awe 
of her. 

She was dressed, as she always was, 
in a black alpaca skirt and calico 
sacque. A faded brown shawl was 
pinned over her shoulders, and a spot- 
less apron was tied about her waist. 
On her head was a black bonnet with 
a violet ribbon, and at her throat the 
pin Fred and I had given her years 
ago. 

Heavy gold rings hung in her ears, 
and a bit of ribbon on her breast 
announced her membership in that 
exclusive organization, “ The United 
Band of Good Samaritans.” 

When I rushed towards her she 
gathered me in her arms and held me 
[ 46 ] 


€LThe Chaperon Cl 

close, just as she was wont to do when 
as a little child I fled to her to be 
comforted. 

“ Honey,” she said, looking at me 
with loving eyes, “ huccome you ain’ 
bin ter see me lately?” 

“ I did ride past last week,” I an- 
swered ; “ but Betsey Ann told me you 
had gone up the bayou to visit your 
son. This is Miss Kate, Mammy ; you 
surely have n’t forgotten her ? ” 

“ I reckon I ain’,” said the old 
woman, pressing the hand Kate gave 
her ; “ is you married yet, honey ? ” 

“No, indeed, Mammy ; I can’t find 
anybody who ’ll have me.” 

“Umph !” said Mammy. “ Ise heerd 
tell of dat befo’. Well, don’ you be 
in a hurry ; youse young yit, an’ you 
hez lots of time. Ter tell you de 
trufe, chile [to me], I always lowed 
ez. Miss Kitty an’ Mass Fred ud mek 
a match.” 

I glanced at Kate, but she seemed 
in no way disconcerted : 

[ 47 ] 


CIBayou TuisteCI 


“ Do you think I ’m good enough 
for your boy ? ” 

Mammy looked critically at the 
lovely young face : “ De Rasleys an’ 
de Faulkners kawnt be beat fur blood, 
an’, seein’ ez you is Ttasley an’ Faulkner 
too, I lows ez you will do fus’ rate.” 

“ And the pity of it,” laughed Kate, 
“is that while I have your approval 
the gentleman has other views.” 

“ Mass Fred,” said Mammy solemn- 
ly, “ ain’ de kine what tells his business. 
Some folkses talk all over dere mouths, 
but Mass Fred ain’ dat sort. He lays 
low, but when de proper time comes 
he kin arkinize wid de bes’.” 

“ Mammy,” said I, “ you will sleep 
in my dressing-room as usual, so take 
off your bonnet and make yourself at 
home. And Priscilla has some hot 
coffee for you in the pantry.” 

It was the half hour after tea, and 
Kate and I, in defiance of prudence, 
were strolling up and down the back 
gallery, wrapped in the light shawls 
[ 48 ] 


HThe Chaperon<H 

Mammy had insisted upon our wearing. 
Kate had drawn the corner of hers over 
her head, and from beneath it her 
face, with its exquisite pallor and seri- 
ous dark eyes, looked like a cameo. 

The moon was shining through the 
oaks and the sky glistened with stars. 
From the garden came the delicious 
fragrance that had greeted us in the 
morning. 

Kate had been telling me of her life, 
the endless round of dances and din- 
ners that I knew so well from past ex- 
perience, and as I listened it seemed 
to me that I understood as I had never 
understood before how impossible it 
was for any one reared in the country 
to become thoroughly in touch with 
town life. Involuntarily I stretched 
out my arms and drew a long, deep 
breath. 

Kate looked at me wistfully. 

“Do you know,” she said, “often, 
when I have been dressing for some 
fashionable affair, I have thought of 
4 [ 49 ] 


d Bayou TristeCI 


you and envied you with all my heart. 
People said it was eccentric of you to 
turn your back on us as you did, and 
I suppose it was inexplicable to many, 
but I understood how, when your heart 
was heavy after Cousin Jean’s death, 
you craved the peace of the woods and 
fields. How you longed to be far 
from the madding crowd, that is too 
self-absorbed to sympathize ; to wear 
out your grief amidst the old scenes 
and the old associations, that, after 
all, have the strongest hold on our 
affections.” 

“ It is true,” I said, “ there is healing 
in the solitude ; strength in the quiet 
days ; balm in the country blooms I 
Of course it is an absurd idea, but it 
seems to me that the sun shines differ- 
ently here from what it does in town. 
Do you know that for the first time in 
my life I feel myself really an indi- 
vidual ? For, there is no doubt about 
it, Kate, town life is very deadening to 
one’s personality.” 

[ 50 ] 


<HThe ChaperonH 

“ Undoubtedly,” she agreed. “ Now, 
I don’t think I’m weaker than most 
people, but so often I find myself 
drifting with the tide, not raising my 
voice in protest against something I 
thoroughly disapprove of, because 
every one is in such a hurry that I 
easily persuade myself there is really 
no use of my speaking. 

“Here one has time to be true to 
one’s self and to one’s convictions. It 
is a free life, a strong life, a good life, 
and I envy those who can live it.” 

She turned towards me and I saw 
that her eyes were full of tears. 

“ I wish Fred could hear you,” I 
cried impulsively ; “ he said only yes- 
terday that your idea of the country 
was a perpetual house-party.” 

“He said that ?” she murmured. 
“ Does he think so badly of me ? I 
thought he knew me better.” 

“ Chillun,” said Mammy from the 
door, “ deres a gemman in de study ter 
see you-alls.” 


[ 51 ] 


€£Bayou Tkiste d 

“ Is he young ? ” asked I. 

“ Young enough,” severely. “ He ’s 
one of dem Donald boys, I reckon ; 
he ’s got de Donald eyes.” 

“ Oh, it ’s Charley ! ” I cried ; “ come 
on, Kate, he ’s been away for a 
month.” 

Mammy put out a detaining hand. 

“Is you gwine in like dat ? wid a 
smile on your face a foot wide ? Lor’, 
chile, whars de raisin’ I gin you ? In 
your ma’s day a young lady ’d never 
hev thought of prancin’ roun’ like dat. 
Hit’s jes’ scandellus ; I ’clar ter gra- 
cious, hit is ! ” 

“ But, Mammy,” I protested, “Char- 
ley Donald’s one of my best friends.” 

“ Is he your beau ? ” she asked with 
a directness that took my breath away ; 
“ kase, ef he ain’, dat ain’ no way ter 
welkum him.” 

“ Hush,” I said, in an agonized whis- 
per ; “ he ’ll hear you.” 

“ Well, I ain’ got no objection. I 
ain’ sayin’ nothin’ ter be ashamed of ! 

[ 52 ] 




> 










HThe Chaperon^ 

Miss Mary, de way ter meet a young 
gemman what ain’ nothin’ but a fren’ 
of de fambly is like dis.” Mammy 
moved primly towards an imaginary 
caller and held out her hand : 

“ Good evenin’, Mr. Donald ; Ise 
pleased ter see you. Hev a seat, sir, 
hev a seat. How ’s de crop on your 
place ? Ise of de ’pinion dat de rains 
gwine ter flustrate de ’tintions of de 
planters. Sumpin’ like dat, Miss Mary, 
sumpin’ easy an’ frenly but none of dat 
fly up de creek talk you wuz thinkin’ 
’bout.” 

“All right,” I said with suspicious 
meekness, and Kate and I turned in 
the direction of the study, where we 
found Charley Donald impatiently 
awaiting us. 

He advanced to meet us, but I fell 
back a step, dropped him a deep curtsey, 
and repeated slowly and impressively 
Mammy’s stately greeting. 

His bewilderment, until we ex- 
plained, was really laughable, but when 
[ 53 ] 


C^Bayou TristeC 


told about Mammy’s zeal in our behalf 
he seemed greatly touched. “What 
a good old soul she is ! ” he said. 

“Yes,” I answered, “Mammy is a 
very dear old woman, and the only 
fault I can find with her is that she 
does n’t believe in the Bible.” 

The door flew open and Mammy 
rushed in precipitately. “ Miss Mary,” 
she gasped, “ what ’s dat youse say in’ ? 
Don’ ’bleeve in de Bible ? Me, what ’s 
been a church-member nigh onter 
thirty years. Me, what wuz baptized 
by ole Brer George Washinton Hicks 
de year your ma wen’ ter de White 
Sulphur Springs ! Me, what ain’ never 
danced a step or sot foot in a dancin’- 
room sense. Chile, huccum you run 
on like dat ? ” 

“ O Mammy ! Mammy ! ” I laughed, 
“ I knew you were at the key-hole, 
but I wanted to prove it. How true 
it is that listeners never hear any good 
of themselves.” 

“ In cose I wuz dere,” said Mammy ; 

[ 54 ] 


H The Chaperon^ 


“ an’ who ’s got mo’ right ? Ain’ you 
in my keer ? ” 

“ Kate,” said I, as Mammy departed, 
“ when you go back you can tell the 
chaperons of your acquaintance of their 
new privilege — the right to listen at 
key-holes. But hev a seat, Mr. Donald ; 
hev a seat ! ” 

It could not have been more than an 
hour later that I heard Mammy call 
out to an imaginary caller : 

“ Well, good-night, chile, hit sho is 
gittin’ late ; hit ’s time you wuz at home 
in bade.” 

I raised my voice to drown hers, for 
Charley was very entertaining and I 
saw no good reason for so early a 
dismissal. 

Several minutes passed, then Mammy 
began locking doors and pulling down 
windows with such unnecessary clamor 
that Charley looked at me inquiringly : 

“ Mammy shutting up the house,” I 
said ; “ she always does it very early.” 

He therefore proceeded with his 
[ 55 ] 


<HBayou TristeCI 

story, and for a short time quiet 
reigned, then we heard distinctly 
eleven o’clock strike from some re- 
mote part of the house. I glanced at 
the mantel, forgetting the clock was at 
the jeweler’s, and as Charley’s breeding 
forbade his looking at his watch, with 
an apology for staying so late, he took 
his departure. 

Then I rushed into the hall to find 
Mammy seated on the stairs armed 
with the dining-room tongs. She 
looked at me triumphantly. 

“ Did you make that horrid noise ? ” 
I demanded. 

“I sholy did, chile, an’ lemme tell you 
dis, ef dat young gemman had onsisted 
on stayin’ arfter dat clock struck, I ’d 
made up my mine jes’ ter go in an’ arsk 
him whar he wuz riz up not ter know 
hit ’s manners ter go home airly when 
de gemman of de house is gone ? ” 

“ O Mammy, Mammy ! ” cried Kate ; 
“ you are too correct for these degen- 
erate days.” 


[ 56 ] 


«H The Chaperon 

“ Too kerrect ? Well, ter think I ’d 
live ter see de day when Miss Sally’s 
chile ’ud say sech a thing ? Lor’, Lor’, 
times sholy hev changed.” 

“No, they haven’t, Mammy ; I was 
in fun,” explained Kate. 

“Dere’s fun an’ fun,” she replied, 
mollified but still stately ; “ howsom- 
ever, dat ’s neider hyar nor dere, what I 
hez on my mine now is ter git you 
chillun ter bade. Gitter long, bofe of 
you ; gitter long.” 

Fred returned after two days’ 
absence, but looking so grave and 
thoughtful that I felt certain he had 
heard bad news. 

Shortly after his arrival Kate con- 
siderately took herself to the garden, 
leaving us together on the gallery. 
Mammy was sweeping off the leaves 
and humming softly to herself : 

“ Oh, de human hyart’s a curous thing. 

Cole ter de love dat ud closes’ cling ! ” 

“ Fred,” said I, “ what ’s the matter ? 
You look as if you had had a shock.” 
[ 57 ] 


CLBayou TmsTEf 


“ I have,” he replied ; “ did you know 
Kate had won that LaGrange case of 
hers ? ” 

“ No, has she ? ” I exclaimed ; “ how 
glad I am ! ” 

“ Glad ! ” he repeated ; “ but of course 
you are, and so ought I to be, if I 
were not a selfish egotist ; but don’t 
you see that this money (for there is a 
large amount involved) puts her for- 
ever out of my reach ? ” 

“ I don’t see how.” 

“ Don’t see ? Why, Mary, it seems 
to me you would know that I would n’t 
ask a rich woman to marry me. What 
have I to offer her but a mortgaged 
plantation and a tumbled-down old 
house ? ” 

“ I feel rather sorry for her,” said I. 
“ Do you mean that you would not»ask 
her even if you knew she loved you ? ” 

He set his lips. “ In the first place I 
have no reason to think that ; but even 
if I did [doggedly] my pride would not 
permit me to do so.” 

[ 58 ] 


<HThe Chaperon^ 

Mammy sent a pile of leaves flying. 

“ De human hyart is ez cole ez ice. 

An Pride am de Debbil’s mose faverrite vice,” 

she sang. 

“ I thought you were broader- 
minded, Fred,” I said ; “I'm disap- 
pointed in you,” and, rising, I started 
down the steps. 

“ Here are Kate's letters,” he said. 

I went slowly towards the garden, 
where I found Kate lying on the grass 
with her hands clasped behind her 
head, staring at the cloudless sky. 

“ It is a beautiful world, Mary,” she 
said. 

“ It is not,” I cried ; “ it 's a horrid, 
stupid old world, and I hate it.” 

“ Why, what has happened ? ” she 
asked ; “ anything about your brother ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Is he,” hesitatingly, “ in trouble ? ” 

“ Yes,” I replied with a sensation of 
grim amusement. 

“ Oh, I am so sorry.” She sat up 
and began opening her letters. “ Could 
[ 59 ] 


CLBayou T r i s t e 

any one do anything to help him ? I 
mean,” flushing, “ is it money trouble ?” 

“Well,” I said truthfully enough, 
“ money has something to do with it ; 
money, I ’ve observed, usually is mixed 
up in our worries. But I ’m afraid 
Fred would n’t let you do anything.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know ; because men 
are queer, and very tiresome, too,” I 
finished unpleasantly. 

“ O Mary ! ” cried Kate, “ Aunt 
Jennie wants me to come home. She 
says she is not well and positively can’t 
do without me ; that I must come 
back at once. I was afraid it would be 
like that when I left.” 

“ Go right home ? ” I repeated, 
“ Your aunt is quite too foolish, Kate.” 

“No, she is very good to me, but 
you know her way.” 

“ Yes,” I answered. I. knew her 
way; in fact, I had been acquainted 
with it for some time, and it was n’t a 
pleasant little way, either. 

[ 60 ] 


€£The Chaperon^ 

“Well,” said Kate, rising, “it 
doesn’t do any good to worry over 
it, but it does seem rather absurd to 
leave town Monday and return on 
Thursday. I shall feel like the king 
of France and his ten thousand men.” 

Mammy’s dismay when she heard 
of Kate’s contemplated departure was 
overwhelming. “ Huccome you do 
sech a thing ? ” she asked ; “ ain’ you 
pleased hyar ? ” 

“ More than pleased. Mammy, it is 
not my fault ; if I had my way — ” 
she broke off and wandering to the 
window looked thoughtfully out into 
the yard. 

Mammy pricked up her ears : 

“We sho is gwine ter miss you,” 
she said. 

Kate did not answer, but I saw her 
teeth close over her under lip : 

“ You is sech good cumpny fur Miss 
Mary, an I clar ter gracious I don’ 
see how Mass Fred’s gwine ter gitter 
long widout you ! ” 

[ 61 ] 


<HBayou TristeC 

“ Mass Fred ? ” repeated Kate bit- 
terly ; “ much he cares ! ” 

“ Chile,” said Mammy, crossing the 
room, “ you is de apple of his eye. 
He farly wusships you ; he hez your 
picter in a locket nex his hyart, an’ 
Ise seen him tek hit out an’ kiss hit 
time an’ time agin. [ “ Oh, shades of 
Ananias,” I thought.] One night 
larst summer he wuz mity seeck ; he 
hed high fever an’ wuz mity bad off, 
an in de d’lirium he didn’ do nothin’ 
but call fur you. Hit wuz, ‘ Kate ! 
Kate ! Kate ! ’ all night an’ all day. 
You kin arsk Miss Mary if hit 
warnt ? ” 

I was mercifully spared the alter- 
native of corroborating Mammy’s ex- 
traordinary tale or proving myself an 
unloving sister by a call from Fred, 
and, thankful for the interruption, I 
hastened to him. I was gone some 
time, but a few minutes afterwards 
I heard such agonizing groans from 
the study that dropping the roses I 
[ 62 ] 


C[ The Chaperon Cf 

was arranging I rushed wildly in that 
direction. 

Fred was just ahead and we entered 
the room together. 

The scene before us was enough to 
startle any one’s nerves. 

Mammy was stretched on the hearth 
rug, writhing in pain, while Kate knelt 
by her, beseeching her to tell her what 
was the matter. With an exclama- 
tion of dismay Fred dragged down a 
pile of sofa cushions and crammed 
them beneath Mammy’s head, while I 
turned and fled for camphor. 

When I returned Mammy was 
quieter, but evidently in great agony 
still ; every now and then she would 
open her eyes and look at us so lov- 
ingly that my heart fairly ached. 
Tears rained down Kate’s cheeks, and 
Fred was very white. 

“ See here,” he cried, “ this can’t go 
on ; it may be very dangerous. I 
shall send Joe for the doctor.” 

Mammy stirred feebly : 

[ 63 ] 


CIBayou TmsTECt 

“ Mass Fred,” she whispered, “ don’ 
leave me ; I likes ter know youse at 
han’. Is dat you, Miss Kate ? ” 

“ Yes, Mammy.” 

“ Chile, give me your hand.” 

Kate, not dreaming what was to 
follow, held out her little, trembling 
fingers. 

“Now yours, Mass Fred.” 

Fred complied wonderingly, then 
Mammy with a great effort laid my 
cousin’s hand in my brother’s. 

“ Chillun,” she said tenderly, “ you 
bofe love each other, but kase one’s 
reech an’ de other’s pore youse driftin’ 
apart. Don’ do hit, chillun ; don’ do 
hit. Ise ole, an’ I knows de worl’, an’ 
lov’s de onliest thing wuth hevin’. 
Money an’ gran’ doin’s an’ de high 
places in de lan’ may satisfy some, but 
not you-all ; you ain’ dat kine ! 
Mass Fred,” coaxingly, “you knows 
you loves her ; why don’ you tell her 
so?” 

“ Heaven help me ! I love her better 
[ 64 ] 


^The Chaperon^ 

than my life ! Kate,” to the startled 
girl, 44 I never meant you to know, 
but if I had had anything to offer you 
I would have asked you to marry me 
long ago.” 

44 And do you ask me now ? ” she 
said. 

44 Oh, yes, yes, if you will have me, 
though Heaven knows I recognize 
how unworthy I am.” 

44 I love you,” she said. 

Mammy drew a long breath : 44 Miss 
Mary,” she murmured, 44 hole dat cam- 
phor ter my nose. Lor’, chile, but hit 
sho’ is healin’. I begins ter feel easier 
already.” 

64 Are you better, Mammy ? ” asked 
Kate. 

44 Yes, honey, but too many folkses 
roun’ me huts my bref. Ef you an’ 
Mass Fred ’ud move ter de winder, 
Miss Mary ’ll keer fur me ; won’t you, 
Miss Mary ? ” 

44 Of course,” said I, and as Kate and 
Fred moved reluctantly away Mammy 
5 [ 65 ] 


HBayou Tri ste 


shaded her face with her hand and 
gave me a most unmistakable wink 
behind it. I was not surprised, for I 
had already begun to suspect her. 

“ Chile,” she asked, when I signalled 
that I understood, “ how soon do you 
think I kin git up ? Hit ’s powerful 
oncuffertubble lyin’ hyar.” 

“ Mammy,” whispered I, “ after the 
fright you gave me I feel like leaving 
you there indefinitely, but since you 
tricked me in a good cause I ’ll have 
pity. Fred, I wish you ’d call Joe 
to help you to move Mammy to her 
room.” 

“ Let me send for the doctor 1 ” 
urged he. 

“No,” cried Mammy with surpris- 
ing vigor. “ I ain’ gwine ter hev no 
doctors foolin’ roun’ me. I’ll be all 
right in no time. Ise used ter dese 
little attacks, an’ dey soon wears off.” 

A prophesy which proved correct, 
for when Kate came in in her travel- 
ling things to say good-by, she 
[ 66 ] 


<1The ChapeeonCI 

exclaimed, “ Why, Mammy, no one 
would dream you had been ill.” 

“ Miss Kate,” said Mammy sol- 
emnly, “ Ise got a soun’ institootion 
an’ I co-operate easily, but who kin 
tell,” darkly, “ some fine day I may go 
out jes’ like a candle in de win’.” 

“ Oh, don’t say that,” said the girl 
earnestly. “ I want you to live for 
years and years. And be sure of this, 
Mammy, I shall never forget that but 
for you I would never have known 
happiness.” 

“ Honey,” said Mammy, suddenly 
conscience-stricken, “ don’ you be fret- 
tin’ over me. I ain’ so very seeck ; 
leastways ” — noting Kate’s wondering 
expression — “ tain’ nothin’ sose ter 
say dangerous. An’ now good-by, 
chile ; tek good keer of yourself, an’ 
may de good Lord bless an’ keep you 
always ! ” 


[ 67 ] 


V 


A SOCIAL ADVISER 

OR kingdom come, Miss Mary ! 
run hyar quick.” 



Priscilla’s agonized tones 
brought me rapidly to the library, 
where I found her mounted on the 
top step of the ladder, armed with a 
long-handled brush with which she 
had been polishing the countenances of 
my ancestors. Her eyes were twice 
their natural size. 

“ What ’s the matter now ? ” I asked. 

“ Matter enuff, chile ; dis ole ladder’s 
powerful onsartin an’ jes now when I 
wuz dustin’ ole marster off, hit peared 
ter me he kiner smile at me, same like 
he useter, ’n I wuz that skeered I cum 
mity nigh tumblin’ off.” 

I looked at the portrait of my 
stately old grandfather and frowned; 


[ 68 ] 


<H A Social Adviser^ 


Priscilla’s love of sensation was apt to 
carry her far, but hitherto she had re- 
spected my relatives. 

“ Don’t be absurd ! ” I said crush- 
ingly, and instead of steadying the 
ladder, as was evidently expected of 
me, I crossed the room and retired to 
the shelter of the window-seat. 

Priscilla, however, was not easily 
subdued ; indeed, I had often said that 
to my mind she possessed all the 
qualifications of a great social leader, 
— sublime self-confidence and a mag- 
nificent capacity for ignoring snubs. 
So, having successfully inveigled me to 
the library, after a moment’s silence 
she proceeded smoothly : 

“ Mass Fred’s the livin’ bornd image 
of ole marster. I sez ter Hinery yis- 
tiddy, ‘ Hinery,’ sez I, ‘if Mass Fred wuz 
ez ole ez he granpa, I clar ter gracious 
I cud n’ tell de diffrunce betwixt 
’em.’ ” 

Her conversational efforts fell un- 
heeded, for I did not reply, but con- 
[ 69 ] 


HBayou Triste€[ 


tinued to gaze out of the windows at 
the vivid sweep of live-oak branches. 
Priscilla climbed down and moved the 
ladder before a portrait of my mother. 
44 Lor’ ! ” she said, passing the brush 
carefully over the lovely young face, 
44 Lor’ ! Miss Mary, I members yo’ 
ma’s weddin’ day same ez twuz yis- 
tiddy. She sho was a beauty, an’ 
young too, jis nineteen when she 
married Mass Arthur.” She paused 
and looked over at me, 44 Miss Mary, 
huccum you ain never married ? ” 

44 Because I never wanted to.” 

44 1 lows you hed lots of chances 
[graciously]. Modeste Powler says 
Betty Green tole her you done los de 
count of de gemman what axed you ! ” 
Of course it was despicably weak, but 
I felt my heart warm towards Betty. 

44 She say how you wuz a ginuine 
belle in de city.” 

44 Did she, indeed ? ” I said, feigning 
an indifference 1 was far from feeling ; 
44 that was certainly kind of her.” 

[ 70 ] 


*! A Social Adviser*! 

44 But, if you ain’ never hed no 
leanin’ ter marry, you done right ter 
stay single ; an’ I reckon when you 
counts hit all up you hez choozed de 
better part.” 

I laughed. 44 That is rather hard on 
Henry, Priscilla.” 

44 Hinery’s a good husban’ ez hus- 
ban’s go, Miss Mary ; but when a 
’ooman marries she ain’ free no longer, 
she’s bleeged ter insult anoder pusson 
’bout every leetle thing she duz, an’ 
arfter awhile dat gits kiner wearin’.” 

I did not tell Priscilla so, but in a 
crude way she had expressed my own 
objections. 

44 I wuz young an’ foolish when I 
married Hinery ; he wuz de bes fiddler 
an’ dancer on de plantation, an’ de 
oder gals sho wuz arfter him, so I 
up an sez yes, ’fore I hed time ter 
think.” 

44 Well, he has been very good to 
you,” I said. 44 Mr. Fred thinks a 
great deal of Henry.” 

[ 71 ] 


H Bayou T hi s t e 


Priscilla pursed up her lips, her 
glance intimated that she could tell 
much an she would, but aloud she said, 
44 Ise got money laid up, Miss Mary. 
I reckon hit ’s wuth while fur Hinery 
ter consort heself right wid me. My 
ma sez ter me de night I wuz married, 
4 Sylla,’ sez she, 4 don you never let 
Hinery git hole of what you makes ; 
he 11 rispict you ef you hez money of 
yo’ own/ An’ Miss Mary, chile, I ain’ 
never furgot dat advice. She wuz a 
good ’ooman, my ma.” 

44 Poor Henry ! ” thought I. 

44 ’Tain no use talkin, Miss Mary ; ef 
you wants peace youse bleeged ter 
take a stan’ frum de fus. Now deres 
Hinery, you mightn’ think hit, but he 
wuz ez skittish ez a colt when I mar- 
ried him.” 

44 1 certainly would n’t have thought 
so ! ” I replied devoutly, remember- 
ing the meek-faced little man who 
called Priscilla wife. 

44 Hinery sho wuz mannish, Miss 
[ 72 ] 


A Social AdviserU 

Mary, but I tuk hit all out’n him de 
fus year.” She chuckled appreciatively. 

As I betrayed no wild interest in 
her matrimonial experiences she pro- 
ceeded to change the subject with 
startling abruptness : 

“ Miss Mary,” with the familiarity 
of an old servant, “ is Mass Phil 
Rainey yo’ beau ? ” 

“ Of course not,” I answered warmly; 
“ he ’s a friend of Mr. Fred’s.” 

“ A fren’ of Mass Fred’s,” she re- 
peated thoughtfully; “a mity good 
fren’, I reckon, seein’ ez he ’s hyar once 
a week an’ sometimes mo’.” I did not 
answer. 

“I members Mass Phil when he 
warnt no bigger’n my Benjie. He’s 
downrite hansom, Mass Phil is, but he 
ain much on talkin, is he ? Ter tell 
you de trufe, Miss Mary, I lows ez 
you talks too much ter Mass Phil. 
You gits him kiner flapdazzled, an’ don’ 
’low him a chance ter git a word in 
aidgewise.” 


[ 73 ] 


<HBayou Triste€[ 


I stared at Priscilla in speechless in- 
dignation. 

“ De oder nite when I wuz fixin de 
hall lamp I tuk note dat you did all de 
talkin’. Mass Phil he laff an’ laff, but 
he ain’ never ascertained no subject 
fur heself.” 

“ Priscilla ! ” I cried with flaming 
cheeks, 46 you had better go on with 
your dusting.” 

“ In a minnit, Miss Mary, in a min- 
nit; but Ise hed hit in my mine dis long 
time ter tell you dis, an’ Ise bleeged 
ter eend hit. I members hearin’ Miss 
Sally say [‘ Sally ’ was Kate’s mother 
and a thorough flirt], — she an’ yo' ma 
wuz in de gardeen, — sez she, ‘Jean,’ 
sez she, ‘ when I likes a man I never 
talks, kase I wants ter hear what he ’s 
got ter say ; an’ when I don’t like him 
I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ neider, kase de 
sooner he sez what’s in he mine de 
sooner Ise done wid him.’ An’ Miss 
Mary [grinning,] I ’lows Miss Sally 
knowed.” 


[ 74 ] 


*! A Social Adviser*! 

Apparently I was not listening, but 
in reality Priscilla’s suggestion was by 
no means lost upon me. Phil Rainey 
was a thorn in my path, and from all 
appearances intended to remain there 
indefinitely. I had known him as a 
child, and upon my return to the plan- 
tation, after my mother’s death, he had 
taken up the old friendship with much 
enthusiasm. 

A slim, dark fellow, with a ready 
laugh and no conversation, he called 
often and again at Southmeade, boring 
me to extinction and furnishing Fred 
with abundant material for teasing. 

It was true, as Priscilla had imperti- 
nently stated, that I led the conversa- 
tion, but if I had not we should have 
gazed at each other in silence. 

But Cousin Sally’s maxim in Pris- 
cilla’s words set me to thinking, and 
to such purpose that when Fred tapped 
at my door that evening, facetiously 
remarking that “ my little playmate 
was in the library,” I went to meet 
[ 75 ] 


HBayou Triste<H 

him resolved to try the magic effects 
of stupidity. 

The result was amazing. After one 
or two fruitless efforts to lead me out 
and finding me utterly unresponsive, 
Phil pulled his chair closer to mine 
and proceeded to entertain me. 

My dullness seemed to stimulate 
him, for the quieter I grew the gayer 
he became ; whether he attributed my 
apathy to sudden self-consciousness I 
do not know, but before long he had 
launched into a conversation of so 
personal a type that Priscilla could no 
longer accuse him of not “ascertaining ” 
a subject. In a comparatively short 
time he had ascertained a great deal 
and given me ample food for reflection. 

Priscilla met me with my lamp just 
after his departure, and the expression 
in her eyes was difficult to ignore. I 
did so, however, and went yawning off 
to bed. 

A night or two after, Phil, finding 
me so curiously pensive and embold- 
[ 76 ] 


€L A Social Adviser*! 

ened by my determined silence, gave 
me the opportunity of saying once and 
forever whether he found favor in my 
sight or not. 

It was not easy to convince him 
that he did not, but after the use of a 
good quantity of plain English it 
dawned on him that I was serious, and 
a few minutes later he dashed out for 
his horse and rode angrily away. 

“ Miss Mary,” said Priscilla the 
following week, 44 huccum Mass Phil 
Rainey don cum hyar no mo’ ? ” 

44 I ’m sure I don’t know,” I replied 
idly. 

Priscilla looked at me with grave 
approbation. 

44 Dat ’s rite, honey,” she said ; 44 don’ 
never tell yo’ bizness ter noboddy. 
But, arfter all, I reckons you’ bleeves 
now Miss Sally knowed what she wuz 
talkin’ ’bout.” 


VI 


UNCLE EPHR’UM 

T HE plantation carriage with 
Uncle Ephr’um on the box 
was at the steps : 

“ It ’s long after eleven,” called 
Fred. “ You ’ll be awfully late.” 

“ Strange,” I mused, “ the zeal peo- 
ple who are not going to church dis- 
play in getting other people off.” 

“ Uncle Ephr’um,” I observed, “ it 
seems to me the mules look very 
rough.” For be it known to all men, 
and to all women too, alas, that car- 
riage horses have ceased to be at South- 
meade. 

“ Dey suttenly duz,” he assented, 
“ but hit kawnt be helped ; when de 
hair gits long an’ fuzzy de dus’ will 
show.” 


[ 78 ] 


<nu NCLE EpHR’umH 

“But,” I continued warmly, “the 
dust would n’t show if it was n’t there.” 

“Dat’s true, chile, dat’s puflectly 
kerrect, but you see hit is dere.” 

I climbed in meekly, the hopeless- 
ness of suggesting that a curry-comb 
might mend matters having been 
demonstrated too often for me to at- 
tempt it now. 

“ Poor old carriage ! ” I reflected ; 
“ poor old, dilapidated coachman ! ” as 
my eyes wandered from the dingy cur- 
tains and battered woodwork to the 
shabby old man in front. 

I took a mental inventory of his 
costume, a process which I found 
highly stimulating to the memory. 
His hat, I recalled, was a gift from 
me in recognition of his services as a 
moss-picker ; his coat Fred gave him 
the day he killed the rattlesnake; his 
trousers — 

“ Uncle Ephr’um,” I asked suddenly, 
“ did you know two hens had disap- 
peared from the henhouse last night ?” 
[ 79 ] 


H Bayou TristeH 


“ You don sesso ? ” 

“ But I do,” I replied irritably ; 
“ and, what is more, I know who took 
them.” 

He glanced around, and to look at 
him one would have said that his 
greatest desire in life was to aid me in 
tracking down the thief. 

“Yes,” I continued triumphantly, 
“ Priscilla and I found a plank knocked 
off and a hole in the wall just big 
enough for Joe to slip through.” (Joe 
was his nephew.) 

Uncle Ephr’um’s glance, which had 
been eager, became full of reproach ; I 
felt like a criminal, like one who had 
wounded another in his tenderest and 
most sacred feelings. 

“ Miss Mary,” he said, “ dat don’ 
soun’ like you. I lows dat no-coun’ 
Priscilla — ” 

“ Priscilla had nothing to do with 
it,” I retorted. “ By the way, did you 
tell the carpenter to come up and look 
at that gate ? ” 

[»] 


<1 Uncle Ephr’umH 

“Yes ’m, an’ he cum up an’ looked 
at hit.” 

For a moment indignation rendered 
me speechless, the gate in question 
being still in the last stages of disre- 
pair ; then I said in tones of such con- 
centrated sarcasm that even Uncle 
Ephr’um wilted, “ I thought I was 
dealing with people who had a little 
common sense, but it seems I was not. 
This time I will be more explicit ; be 
good enough to tell Jim to mend the 
gate, straighten the hinges, fix the 
latch.” 

“ Now, now,” said the old man sooth- 
ingly, “ ’tain no use gittin’ mad ’bout 
hit ; hit don’ do a single mite of good.” 
And while inwardly protesting I knew 
he spoke the truth. 

So I fell into a moody silence and 
was jogged along to church in any- 
thing but a Christian frame of mind. 
All at once my reflections w r ere cut 
short by the mules swerving suddenly 
across the road. 

6 [ 81 ] 


<HBayou TristeC 


“ What on earth is the matter ? ” I 
asked. 

“ ’Tain’ nothin’ but one of dem bike- 
lists,” said Uncle Ephr’um. 

“ Stop ! ” I cried, for at the edge of 
the drive was a broken bicycle with a 
man lying face downwards beside it. 
“ The poor fellow is hurt.” 

“ Lor’! ” continued the dusky Levite, 
“ what bizness is hit of ourn ?” 

“ Get down this instant,” I said, and 
I leaned over and caught the reins 
with that in my tone and manner, a 
suspicion of the Rasley stateliness, that 
sent Uncle Ephr’um scrambling from 
his perch. 

Stooping he lifted the young man 
and turned his face to the sun. 

“ He done dade,” he said. 

“Nonsense,” I replied, “give him a 
mouthful of whiskey.” 

“ Whiskey,” in an injured tone, 
“ whar I gwine git enny ? ” 

“ Out of your pocket,” for I knew 
his custom. 


[ 82 ] 


<HUncle Ephr’umCL 

So with great reluctance he pro- 
duced a bottle with a corn-cob stopper 
and poured a little of the cheering 
liquid down the stranger’s throat. 

“ Tain’ no good, Miss Mary,” he said. 

“ It is,” I answered ; “ I saw him 
move. Now, look here, we must get 
him back to Southmeade. Take him 
up, I ’ll help you with him ; there,” 
lifting his head gently, “get into the 
carriage. Poor fellow ! ” as a groan 
escaped the unconscious lips, “ we ’re 
doing the best we can for you.” 

“ Whose gwine ter drive,” asked 
Uncle Ephr’um. 

“ I am,” and I climbed up and took 
the reins. 

“ De Lord hev mussy on us ! ” was 
the devout response. 

The road was lonely and we met 
no one. 

We found Fred on the front gallery 
much disturbed over our speedy return. 

“ What ’s up ? ” he cried, running 
down the steps ; “ and what on earth 
[ 83 ] 


c; b A you Triste Cf 

are you doing up there ? By George ! ” 
after a glance at Uncle Ephr ’urn’s 
burden. 

I sprang down and in a few rapid 
words explained the situation, then, 
leaving them to get the sufferer to 
Fred’s room, I flew in search of 
Priscilla. 

“ Priscilla,” I cried from the back 
steps (our kitchen, like all plantation 
ones, being some distance from the 
house) ; “ Priscilla, have you seen 
Joe?” 

Priscilla appeared, — a much be- 
floured figure. 

“ I sont him fur some wood ’bout 
two hours ago, an’ I ain’ nuver seed 
him sence.” 

“ Call him ! I want him imme- 
diately.” 

So nothing loath she sent her voice 
across the yard: “Joe! O Joe! You 
Joe!” 

No answer. 

“ Horrid little boy,” I cried despair- 
[ 84 ] 


<HUncle Ephr’umCI 

ingly, “ he shan’t have that hat of Mr. 
Fred’s. I know he hears.” 

“Lor’, Miss Mary,” cried Priscilla, 
“ yander’s Joe now ; ” and from beneath 
the steps where I am standing crawls 
the truant. 

“ Why did n’t you come before ? ” 
I asked angrily. 

“ I nuvver knowed you wanted 
me.” 

“ You did n’t hear us shrieking over 
this yard ? ” 

“No ’m.” Again the hopelessness 
of argument is borne in upon me. 

“ Go round to the steps,” I said, 
“and take the carriage for Doctor 
Starr ; ask him to come back with you ; 
say that a young gentleman has been 
badly hurt.” 

Joe lingered : 

“ Well, what are you waiting for ? ” 

“ ’Tain’ Mr. Fred’s what hut ? ” 

“ Certainly not ; now hurry,” and as 
the little black figure vanished I ran 
to the kitchen to consult with Pris- 
[ 85 ] 


<HBayou Triste*H 


cilia over the relative merits of ice and 
hot water for bruises. 

It was six weeks later, and my 
patient (as Fred insisted on calling 
him, though Mammy Margaret was his 
real nurse) had for a week now been 
able to leave his room and sit on the 
gallery in the shade of the Marechal 
Niel rose. He was still pale and 
showed the effects of his illness, but I 
found myself thinking how handsome 
he must be when strong and well. 

Clever, courteous, and absurdly 
grateful for the little we were able to 
do for him, he was a pleasant addition 
to our small household, to whom any- 
thing in the way of an excitement was 
welcome. 

In a short while we had learned much 
about him ; he was a New Yorker (one 
of the Allen-Delanceys), and, having 
come South for pleasure, was wheeling 
through the country when the accident 
occurred that brought him into our 
quiet lives. 


[ 86 ] 


Cl Uncle Ephr’umCI 

It did not take long to discover that 
his half-sister had married one of our 
cousins, and that we had numerous 
other mutual friends. 

It seemed that we had just missed 
each other at the Greenbriar, and that 
he had intended sailing on the very 
steamer Kate and I returned in when 
a cablegram altered his plans. 

He told me this last bit of news as 
we sat on the gallery one day, and I 
exclaimed : 

“ What a tiny little world it is, after 
all ! ” 

“Not so very small,” he said. “ It 
is wide enough at times, but it only 
proves, what I have always contended, 
that nothing can keep people apart 
whom Fate wills to bring together.” 

“ Do you really think that ? ” 

“ Yes, I do, and I cannot be too 
grateful that Fate took interest enough 
in my affairs to send my wheel into a 
rut ; if she had not I would have gone 
home with a lot of superficial informa- 
[ 87 ] 


e . Bayou TristeCI 


tion about Louisiana, but minus an 
experience that I would not forego 
for all the aching ankles in the world.” 

“ You have been unusually favored,” 
I said ; “ tourists generally see us from 
the outside, but you have known us as 
we really are. You have lifted the 
curtain and seen something of our 
home life, with its droll makeshifts and 
petty trials, its simplicity and gen- 
uineness and frank poverty. You have 
understood as perhaps few North- 
erners do the exact relation between 
the old slaves and their masters’ 
children and grandchildren.” 

“ Yes,” he said. “ To Mammy’s nurs- 
ing I owe my health. To Uncle 
Ephr’um many a hearty laugh. To 
your brother an acquaintance with 
brave young manhood I shall never 
forget, and to you — ” 

The rose I held snapped suddenly, 
and as he stooped to pick it up he 
said again, with a rush of tenderness 
in his voice, “ and to you — ” 

[ 88 ] 


^ Uncle Ephr’umH 

“ Miss Mary,” said Uncle Ephr’um, 
from the steps, “ Mass Fred wants you 
in de gardeen.” 

I went, though I confess very re- 
luctantly, for it is not agreeable to 
have the cup snatched away just as it 
is held to your lips, and I heard Uncle 
Ephr’um say as I moved away, “ Yes, 
boss, de Rasleys an’ de Faulkners, 
deys bin folks of consularity ever sence 
ole Kilumbus diskivered Ameriky.” 

After finding the flower-seed Fred 
wanted I returned to the house, but 
instead of rejoining Mr. Delancey on 
the gallery I wandered into the library 
and struck a few chords on the piano 
to indicate my whereabouts. 

But though I waited fully a half 
hour no one came. Then with rising 
anger I opened the window and looked 
onto the porch. 

Seeing it deserted I went out im- 
mediately. 

Uncle Ephr’um, alone in his glory, 
was training a climbing rose and 
[ 89 ] 


C^Bayou TristeH 


mounted on an upturned barrel which 
threatened every moment to collapse 
with him. 

“ Why not get the ladder ? ” I said, 
knowing that it had been long broken, 
awaiting his attention. 

“ Dis is good enuff fur me,” he said ; 
‘‘times am what dey wuz, an ef ole 
marster’s grandchillun kin be so frenly 
wid a Yankee I reckon I ain’ too 
proud ter stan on a barrel.” 

“Absurd!” I cried. “Mr. Delancey 
is a gentleman ; any one would be glad 
to entertain him. Besides,” noting his 
expression, “we only did our duty.” 

“ Umph,” said Uncle Ephr’um. 

“Mary,” said Fred, joining me a 
short while later, “ did you know 
Delancey was going away to-morrow ? ” 

“ What?” I cried. 

“ Yes, I have just parted with him ; 
he says he has received letters (the 
usual excuse) that require his imme- 
diate return. Do you know if anything 
could have happened to annoy him ? ” 
[90 ] 


C^Uncle Ephr’umH 

“ Certainly not.” Then as the re- 
flection of our conversation came back 
to me, with the unfinished sentence 
that might have meant so much, the 
bitter doubt arose that perhaps he had 
repented of his impulsive speech, and 
thought it wise to go away. 

44 1 know of no reason,” I repeated, 
conscious of my burning cheeks. 
44 But above all things do not persuade 
him to stay. He knows his own 
affairs best, and protestations might 
embarrass him. You know we South- 
erners are very warm-hearted, and he 
might mistake civility for gush.” 

44 Mary ! ” exclaimed Fred, 44 that 
does n’t sound a bit like you ! And 
why should you fear Delancey’s mis- 
understanding us ? He ’s too good a 
fellow for that.” 

44 Granted,” said I ; 44 but, all the 
same, 1 would not toll the bells or 
wear sackcloth and ashes over his de- 
parture. He will respect you all the 
more if you do not.” 

[ 91 ] 


IHBayou TristeCI 


In spite of my sage advice Fred 
showed great regret when Hugh De- 
lancey stepped languidly into the car- 
riage that was to carry him to the 
station, but I made up for it by such 
a show of cheerful resignation that 
Fred told me afterwards I had been 
actually rude. 

“ Good-by again, Miss Rasley,” 
called our visitor. “ I shall never for- 
get Southmeade or your kindness to 
the stranger within your gates.” 

“ Good-by,” I replied. “ Here 
Flip, race with me to the garden,” and 
as the carriage rolled away Hugh 
Delancey saw me skimming across the 
yard as though there were no such 
word as regret in my vocabulary. 

It must be admitted, however, that 
my indifference was only a poor pre- 
tence, for the days that followed 
showed me only too plainly that with 
our guest had gone a goodly share of 
my interest in life. I had never 
known what it was to “ miss ” any one 
[ 92 ] 


H Uncle Ephr’umH 

before ; hitherto my simple interests 
and trivial occupations had completely 
filled my days ; but now — 

I grew restless and fretful ; I waged 
daily battles with Priscilla ; I was 
coldly sarcastic to Uncle Ephr’um and 
absolutely intolerant of Joe. 

Once, even, I answered Fred shortly ; 
a proceeding which so dismayed him 
that I think he had serious doubts of my 
sanity. Mammy came to see me often 
in those days, and though she never 
said anything I knew she thought me 
looking wretchedly. 

She always inquired for “ Mr. 
Hugh,” and when I told her of the 
books and music he had sent me, and 
his long letters to Fred, she seemed to 
be greatly puzzled. 

“ I ’lowed es you hed sont him 
away,” she said. 

“ What do you mean ? ” I asked. 

“ Why, chile, I knowed he wuz in 
love wid you, and I thought you ’d tole 
him dere warn’ no hope fur him.” 

[ 93 ] 


Bayou Triste *1 


“ Did you ? ” I said with a mirthless 
laugh ; “ you ’re a very clever old 
woman, Mammy, but even you can 
make mistakes. Did he send you the 
tobacco he promised ? ” 

“Yessum, a big box, an’ he sont 
some ter Ephr’um too ; somehow 
Ephr’um didn’ seem ter be pleased 
wid hit. Pears ter me he ’s been kiner 
low-sperritted lately. Hez you ob- 
sarved hit ? ” 

“ No,” I answered, truthfully enough, 
for I was too much absorbed in my 
own grievances to be watchful of other 
people’s. “No, I never noticed any- 
thing.” 

“ He tole me he don’ sleep at 
night, an’ he hez mizry in he back 
jes’ orful.” 

“ Poor old man,” I said compassion- 
ately, and after Mammy had departed 
I went into the vegetable garden, where 
Uncle Ephr’um was working on his 
tomato plants, and proceeded to ques- 
tion him about his health. 

[ 94 ] 


^Uncle Ephr’um([ 

To my surprise he did not take my 
inquiries in good part : 

“Huccome you ax me how I is ? ” 
he said. “ Ain’ I doin’ my work right ? 
Is I gittin’ onkeerful ? If I is, jes’ 
you tell me so immejiate-like, an’ don’ 
you beat ’roun’ axin’ me how I is.” 

“ Dear me ! all this temper because 
of a civil question ! Uncle Ephr’um, 
I ’m afraid something ’s seriously the 
matter with you ; what have you got 
on your conscience ? ” 

He started perceptibly. “ What ’s 
dat ? ” he asked ; “ what ’s dat you say ? 
Ef Ise done wrong, I done hit fur de 
bes’ so I ain’ got no cause fur ter 
be oncomfertubble.” 

“ Have n’t you ? ” said I, more for 
the sake of argument than from hon- 
est conviction ; “ well, I don’t know 
about that. If some one else is mixed 
up with it, I expect they would have 
something to say about it.” 

“ Hit were done fur de bes,” he 
repeated. 


[ 95 ] 


f Bayou TristeCI 


“ Oh, well, I suppose you know 
your own affairs,” I said and I glanced 
listlessly at the white-starred black- 
berry vines wreathing the fence. 
“ Uncle Ephr’um, why don’t you cut 
those down ? ” 

“ I ain’ got de hyart ter do hit, chile, 
deys so determinated an so fergivin’. 
Ef you chops em down terday deys 
back by termorrer. Dey warnt doing 
noboddy enny harm, so I ’eluded ter 
jes’ leave em dere.” 

I smiled. “ I hope you are as 
thoughtful of people,” I said. “ If it 
pains you so to see a plant suffer, I 
suppose you could not bear to hurt 
any one’s feelings.” 

“ Not pupposely, Miss Mary ; not 
pupposely,” he replied. I looked at 
him in surprise. Evidently I had 
touched upon a sore subject. 

“ Talkin’ ’bout sick folkses,” he 
said, “I ’d like ter know what ails 
you, chile ? You is ez white ez 
dat flower yander, an’ I never heers 
[ 96 ] 


«nu NCLE EPHR’UM 

you singin’ roun’ de house likes you 
useter.” 

The blood swept to my brow. Had 
I taken my trouble so to heart that 
even the servants observed it? Surely 
I must be daft to so forget my 
pride ! 

“ It ’s this warm weather,” I said, 
“ nothing more ! ” and I sauntered 
away with my head held high. 

I think it was that night that Pris- 
cilla came in to borrow a stamp. 

“ Fur Uncle Ephr’um,” she an- 
nounced ; “ Joe ’s writin’ a letter fur 
him.” 

“ Look in that little box ! ” I said, 
and as she moved away I wondered 
languidly who Joe’s correspondent was, 
and little dreamed that his letter had 
any connection with my affairs. 

For the next few days Uncle 
Ephr’um went about with such an air 
of mystery that Fred asked him if he 
was n’t in love, a question which was 
very badly received. 

7 [ 97 ] 


C Bayou Triste^H 


“ Me ? ” he exclaimed indignantly ; 
“ huccum you poke fun at a pore ole 
nigger, Mass Fred ? ” 

“ Love ’s no fun,” said Fred ; “ it can 
play the very mischief with you some- 
times.” 

They were just outside my window, 
Fred feeding a pet rooster and Uncle 
Ephr’um raking leaves. 

“ I reckon hit duz, Mass Fred. Ise 
seen some folkses what hit peers ter 
farly onsettle. Now dar wuz Mr. De- 
lancey, he sholy did hev hit bad.” 

“ Oh, shut up,” cried Fred ; “ can’t 
you tell the difference between love 
and a sprained ankle ? ” 

“Yes, sir,” was the dignified response; 
“an’ ’fore dis week’s out you’ll see 
dat I knows what Ise talkin’ ’bout.” 

“ Uncle Ephr’um,” said Fred, get- 
ting up and strolling away, “ if you ’d 
like an order for the doctor you can 
have it. I fear there ’s something ter- 
ribly out of gear in your brain.” 

Uncle Ephr’um chuckled. “You 
[ 98 ] 
















































































































































































<HUncle Ephr’umC[ 

kin laff,” he said, “ but jes’ you wait 
an’ see.’’ 

It was two days later and noonday. 
Across the pastures came the whistle 
of the coming train, the clang of the 
plantation bell. 

From my bench in the garden I saw 
Joe ride down the avenue with the 
mail-bag, then Uncle Ephr’um jog 
past in the cart. Fred called out to 
him not to forget the newspaper, and 
Flip trotted as far as the gate, then 
feeling that he had done his duty re- 
turned to finish his nap out on the 
rug. 

The sky was as blue as a mountain- 
lake ; the air heavy with fragrance. 

With a sigh I folded my arms, leaned 
my cheek on them, and gave myself up 
to sombre thoughts. 

How long I remained thus I do not 
know, but the click of the garden-gate 
and a man’s step on the path made me 
lift my head. 

“ Miss Rasley,” cried Hugh Delan- 
[ 99 ] 




H Bayou TristeCI 


cey, “before you even greet me let 
me show you what brings me here. 
This will be an explanation of much 
that has puzzled me ; an explanation 
that I feel sure will satisfy even your 
pride,” and before I could protest he 
put a letter into my hand. 

“ From Uncle Ephr’um,” he said, 
“ received two days ago. But read it, 
I beg of you.” 

So, while he stood bareheaded with 
the sunshine playing round him, I 
read, now with a smile and now with 
a sigh, the letter Joe had written, and 
which my stamp had carried safely to 
its destination : 

“ HONORED MR. HUGH DELANCEY 

“ respected Sir, — i takes my pen in han ter 
write you dese few lines ter say ez i is enjyein 
good helth an hopes youse bein blest wid de 
same — respected Sir, the honor of addressin’ 
you is sich ez i never expected ter enjye but 
felin ez i hez done you rong an sein ez our 
young Lady is fadin away afore our eyes I sez 
ter myself sez i de trufe mus be told dough i 
wines up in de leetle eend of de horn — hon- 
[ 100 ] 


CUncle Ephr’umCL 


ored an respected Sir — you members dat day 
we wuz talkin tergedder on de front galry an i 
tole you bout mass charlie donels bein miss 
Marys beau — ef you rekillex i sed dey wuz 
gwine ter be married rite arfter easter well i 
ain menin ter tell you no lie but i handled de 
trufe mity keerless like — kase mass charlies 
bin kotin miss Mary ever sense dey wuz ehillun 
an ten or twelve mo gemman too i disremem- 
bers dere names — but she ain never showed 
no favor to none of em ceppen hit wuz you. 

i tole you what i did kase i thot hit wuz a 
down rite shame fur ole marsters grandchile 
ter marry a yankee what fit agin wealls an 
ennyhow i lowed ez dere wuz heaps of pritty 
ladies in de norf what ud make you a good an 
fitten wife an noo yorks too far away fur miss 
Mary ter go. 

seein howsomever ez shese pinin fur you an 
bein ez ise so lowsperited over de way she don 
sing an laff roun de place like she useter i done 
fixed hit up in my mine ter tell you de trufe 
an let you percedify fur yoself. 

66 honored an respected Sfr your obejient 
sarvant, ePrum gabul. 

66 miss Mary don know nothin bout dis jes 
me an joe an ise promist him a lickin ef he 
tells ennyboddy.” 


[101 ] 


HBayou TmsTECt 


The letter drifted to the ground ; I 
held out my hands with a smile : 

“ You are sure you wanted to come ? 
You had not forgotten ? ” 

“ You know,” answered Hugh. 

“ But the pretty ladies at the North,” 
I suggested. 

“ I prefer a pretty lady at the South,” 
he said. 


[ 102 ] 


VII 


AT MADAME JEAN’S 

I CL IMBED the levee slowly, for 
the bank was steep. Flip trotted 
briskly ahead while Joe idled 
languidly in the rear. 

The sun was setting and the western 
sky blazed with color. Crimson and 
gray and gold, the shifting cloud- 
banks, dashed here and there with 
fleecy white, were a feast to the eye, a 
delight to the soul. 

“ The heavens declare the glory of 
God and the firmament showeth His 
handiwork,” I quoted dreamily. 

Then my gaze wandered to the 
bayou, to remain momentarily trans- 
fixed with consternation and surprise. 

It had been many weeks since I had 
last climbed the levee, and back among 
[ 103 ] 


C Bayou Triste H 

the Southmeade oaks it had been easy 
to forget the treacherous enemy at our 
gates. 

It is true I had heard Fred fretting 
over his levees, but I had listened to 
the same story every spring of my 
life ; true, too, that our visitors fre- 
quently referred to the unprecedented 
rise in the bayou, but I had thought 
them over-anxious, and it was not 
until now, when I stood on the frail 
earth- wall and saw the water whirling 
and tearing at my feet, that I realized 
the danger. 

My courage failed me, for it seemed 
such a hopeless task to seek to defend 
ourselves against this resistless force. 

I had started out in good spirits, in 
answer to Priscilla’s request to buy her 
some brahma eggs from Madame Jean, 
an old creole woman who lived above 
us, but my heart sank and a dull de- 
spair settled over me as I walked along, 
reflecting that in an instant our old 
home, the broad fields, the toil and 
[ 104 ] 


<1At Madame Jean’s*! 

hopes of years, might be swept out of 
existence. 

Madame Jeans one-story house, 
with the unplastered walls and leaning 
mud chimney, was set some distance 
back from the road ; on one side was 
a stagnant pond, the haunt of innu- 
merable frogs ; on the other the re- 
mains of a house begun years ago and 
never finished. I remembered driv- 
ing past there as a wee child, and 
hearing my father say, 4 4 That house 
was begun when I was a boy.” 

A tiny garden enclosed Madame 
Jean’s cottage, filled to overflowing 
with periwinkles, larkspurs, coxcombs, 
phlox, and long-stemmed lilies. A red 
rose had flung itself to the top of a 
china tree, and a yellow jessamine 
covered a rude arbor near the gate. 
The beds were marked off with in- 
verted ale bottles, and a freshly bricked 
path led up to a spotless step. It 
seemed to be, in its purity and fresh- 
ness, the very abode of peace. 

[ 105 ] 


C^Bayou TristeC 


I pushed the wistaria vine aside and 
knocked on the wall, for the door was 
wide open, a white cotton curtain 
waving in the breeze. While I waited 
I turned aside to admire the scarlet 
geraniums growing in an old pirogue, 
swung at one end of the gallery. 
Having grown unfit for swamp use 
any longer, it had been thrown aside 
to be converted by thrifty Madame 
Jean into a flower-box. 

I was bending over it when a step 
sounded behind me and Madame’s 
soft voice said, “ Bon soir, mademoiselle ; 
eet has been one long time sence you 
have been here.” 

“Too long, madame,” I responded 
cordially ; “ but I am a very busy 
person, for all you may hear to the 
contrary, and, as you know, am nothing 
of a visitor. You have been well, I 
hope ? ” 

“ Very well, thank you, made- 
moiselle.” 

Her tone was cheerful, yet in some 

[ 106 ] 


<1At Madame Jean’s*H 

indefinite way she gave me the im- 
pression of suffering. I glanced at 
her quiet face, framed in smooth bands 
of silver hair, and decided that I was 
fanciful. 

44 Won’t you come in ? ” and she led 
the way to the parlor. The floor was 
bare but spotless, the furniture of the 
simplest quality, but the hide-bottomed 
chairs were comfort itself, and the 
orange-flower syrup, presently brought 
in to me, a drink fit for the gods. 

After a few minutes’ desultory chat 
I acquainted Madame Jean with the 
motive of my errand, and she disap- 
peared to see if she could supply the 
demand. She soon returned with a 
huge gourd filled with rich yellow eggs. 

44 One dozen and two,” she counted 
slowly. 44 Weel that do, mademoi- 
selle?”. 

44 It will have to do,” I laughed. 
44 Indeed, I ’m only too grateful for 
any; I hope you are not depriving 
yourself.” 


[ 107 ] 


HBayou TristeCL 

“ Non , non , eet is a pleasure ; and, 
what is more, I can never do too much 
for your mother’s child.” 

I had never known what it was, 
but some long-ago kindness of my 
mother’s had lingered in her memory 
with a faithfulness not often to be 
met with nowadays. 

“ Have you heard from ’Tasie 
lately ? ” I asked, rising regretfully, for 
the little room had an out-of-the- world 
charm of its own. 

Madame did not reply, and, think- 
ing she had not understood, I repeated 
the question. 

“You have not heard, then?” she 
said in a low, shamed voice. “ But of 
course they would not tell you.” 

“ Heard ? ” I repeated stupidly. 
“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ Do not ask me,” she broke out 
passionately. “It is not for you to 
take her name upon your lips. I 
know not what has become of her, — 
where she has gone. She is nothing 
[ 108 ] 


*!At Madame Jean’s*! 

to me, — nothing ! ” and she threw out 
her hands in a bitter gesture of repu- 
diation. 

A vision of the little, dark-browed 
child who had grown like a flower 
under Madame’s tender care flashed 
before me, — the innocent face, the 
laughing eyes. 

“ Sometimes I think the good God 
has forgotten me,” went on Madame. 
“ Father Pierre, he comes and talks to 
me ; and your priest, — your Monsieur 
Pyrl, came to see me the other morn- 
ing. He was kind, he seemed to un- 
derstand, to know what I felt ; but my 
heart here is like ice,” and she laid 
her hand on her breast. 

“ I am very sorry for you,” I said, 
feeling my utter inadequacy, for I had 
never encountered tragedy of this type 
before. 

“ If she had killed me with her own 
hands it would have been better.” 

“ Madame Jean,” I said, speaking 
with an impulse rare in one so consist- 
[ 109 ] 


H Bayou TristeC^ 

ently conservative, “this is a hard 
world ; cruel and unforgiving, espe- 
cially to women. Would it not grieve 
you to think you had made it harder 
for some other poor human being, and 
that a creature of your own flesh and 
blood ? ” 

“ She has shamed me,” she mur- 
mured. “ I never want to see her 
face again.” 

“You think not, but you miss her 
all the time. Poor ’Tasie ! who could 
have dreamed of this ? She was such 
a happy little child.” 

A stifled cry broke from Madame : 
“ She is a weecked girl, mademoiselle ; 
you should not speak of her.” 

“ If, some day, she is sorry and 
comes back to you, you will not turn 
her away, will you ? ” 

She did not reply. 

“ You would not, Madame Jean, 
you know you would not ; ” and I bent 
my eyes on her face, concentrating all 
the force of my earnest and sincere 
[ 110 ] 


A t Madame Jean ’sC[ 

feeling upon her. “You said you 
could not do too much for my mother’s 
child ; do this for me : Promise me, 
you will take her back.” 

“ Mon Dieu ! what is it to you ? 
Why should you care ? ” she broke 
out. 

“ She is a woman,” I said gently, 
hardly realizing that the contrast be- 
tween my own happy life and the 
other’s wretched existence was the se- 
cret of my compassion. 

“ Be it so,” she said sullenly. “ If 
she comes back I will take her in, but 
she will never come ! ” 

Late that evening Fred found me 
sitting on the front steps, dreaming. 
The moon was up and the branches of 
the oak trees sparkled with fireflies. 
A little breeze fragrant with roses 
stole round the corner of the house, 
the air echoed to the cheerful call of 
insects. 

We seemed to be in a world of our 
own ; a world of peace and quiet, far 
tin] 


HBayou TristeC 


from pain and trouble and heartbreak. 
The old, old riddle of the why and 
wherefore of existence, the meaning of 
sin and sorrow, crept into my mind, 
but I put it from me with decision : 

“ I did not understand, but all was 
for the best ! ” 

“ I wish you could see yourself,” 
said Fred, glancing at me affection- 
ately ; “ your face looks like a prayer. 
I ’ll bet you, ten to one, you were 
thinking of Delancey.” 

“I was,” I answered, with a swift 
rush of pity for others less fortunate. 
“ I was thanking God, fasting, for a 
good man’s love.” 


[ 112 ] 


VIII 


THE KUNJERIN’ OF SALLY-ANN 

I thought it rather hard Priscilla 
should follow me to the garden, 
whither I had taken myself for the 
express purpose of enjoying my own 
society, but scarcely was I established 
before she arrived, smiling and urbane, 
and so perfectly sure of a welcome as 
to be peculiarly exasperating. 

I had told Fred only a day or two 
past that if one was polite one was 
sure to be imposed upon, and Pris- 
cilla was a constant reminder of this 
unhappy fact. 

4 4 You looked so lonesome, Miss 
Mary,” she said, seating herself on the 
grass, 44 dat I ’lowed I ’d jine you ; 
’tain’ good fer young folkses ter flock 
by deyselves ; ’sides Ise in trubble, an’ 
I wants you ter vise me.” 

8 [ 113 ] 


Cl Bayou Triste €t 

She settled her pan of peas on her 
knee, drew a long breath, and, without 
waiting to hear whether I was pre- 
pared to give my assistance, plunged 
into her narrative. 

“Deres one thing ’bout you, Miss 
Mary,” she remarked ; “ youse young 
but you knows a lot. I reckon dat 
cums frum livin’ in de city ; and now 
you stays in de country you members 
what you knowed. I ’lows dere ain’ 
many folkses kin git ahead of you.” 

This delicate tribute (coming from 
such a source) was of course appre- 
ciated. 

“You do me too much honor,” I 
murmured. 

“No ’m, you sarves every word of 
hit. Me an’ Hinery wuz talkin’ ’bout 
you de oder night, an’ Hinery he up 
an’ sez, ’Priscilla,’ sez he, ’eddication 
is one thing an’ brains anoder, but 
mixin’ wid folkses an’ onderstannin’ 
dere ways is bettern all ; an’ dats how 
hit is wid Miss Mary.’” 

[ H4] 


The Kunjerin’ of Sally- Ann C[ 

I realized at once that this speech 
(intended to be complimentary) would 
not bear investigation, so I said 
hastily : 

“ Well, what can I do for you ? ” 

“ You kin hep me a lot, Miss Mary ; 
hits Sally- Ann what’s in trubble. 
Yessum, Sally ain’ had no luck sence 
de day she wuz bornd ; fus tunnin’ 
a kittle of bilin’ water over herself 
when she warnt no mo’n a baby, den 
bein’ runned by a cow crossin’ thru’ 
Mrs. Dameron’s parsture, an’ hyar 
lately gwine an’ gittin’ kunjered by 
dat no count leetle gal what cooks fur 
Mister Lagroue.” 

“ Angie ! ” I exclaimed. 

“ Yessum, an’ alongst of a squint- 
eyed nigger what ain’ wuth de shot 
ter kill him wid.” 

“ If he ’s all that,” I said, “ why 
should Sally- Ann want him ? ” 

“ Miss Mary, dere ain’ no countin’ 
on gals ; Ise lived a long time an’ Ise 
lunned a heap, but Ise never con- 
[ 115 ] 


tH Bayou TristeC 

structed myself ez ter what a gal ’s 
gwine ter do 1 Nathan Lewis, de 
nigger what ’s brung all de ’citement, 
wuz keepin cumpny wid Sally (dey 
wuz traduced at de picnic what de 
congregation of Blessed Sinners guv 
at de Grove) ; an’, seein’ ez Sally ain’ 
nothin’ on looks, an’ warnt likely ter 
git anoder chance, me an’ Hinery 
’cided ter make no ’jections ter de 
match. 

“ Everything was gwine on smoovely 
when Sally- Ann ain’ hed no better 
sence den ter ’vite Angie ter supper 
one night when Nathan wuz dere. 
Well, Miss Mary, you mayn’t ’bleeve 
hit, but she ain’ mo’n set eyes on dat 
nigger ’fore she gin ter ’tract him ; 
sich gwines on I never seed. 

“ Sally- Ann she ain’ dun nuffin but 
cry all night, an’ Hinery he sez ter 
her, sez he, ‘You got jes’ what you 
sarved, ain’ got no mo’ gumtion den 
ter ax dat gal hyar. I reckon you ’ll 
know better nex’ time.’ Well, Miss 
[ 116 ] 


<1 The Kunjerin’ of Sally- Ann 

Mary, Nathan ain’ bin nyar us sence, 
ceppen once, an’ den twuz ter ax 
Hinery fur de loan of a quarter ; an’ 
Sally- Ann she ’s bin gwine roun’ like 
a seeck chicken, never talkin’ ter no- 
boddy, an’ not sleepin’, an’ actin’ so 
contrary dat we knows Angie ’s done 
kunjered her.” 

“ Nonsense,” said I. “ I suspect 
Sally is low-spirited and you are too 
easily frightened.” 

“No, ma’am, she’s bin kunjered; 
Monday night de fedders in her piller 
wuz cram full of lumps.” 

44 That often happens.” 

44 An’ larst night she foun’ a dade 
chicken hade in her bade.” 

4 4 The cat took it in there, of course ; 
people don’t conjure each other 
nowadays.” 

44 White folkses don’, Miss Mary, 
but niggers duz ; an’ Ise dat on- 
settled ’bout Sally dat Ise pretty nigh 
’stracted. Hinery sez ter me ez he 
wuz levin’ dis mornin’, 4 Priscilla,’ sez 
[ 117 ] 


C; Bayou TristeH 

he, ‘ why don you insult Miss Mary ? 
Here ain’ nothin’ she kawnt do, an’ ef 
you splains de sark’mstances of de case 
I ’low she’ll ’vise something ter set 
things straight.’ ” 

“ Henry overrates my abilities,” I 
remarked, not caring whether Priscilla 
understood or not ; “ but I ’m willing 
to do anything to help you, because 
Sally is an honest girl, and I hate to 
think of her being ill.” 

“She’s kunjered, Miss Mary; dat 
Angie ain’ got Injun blood fur nothin’ ; 
but Lor’ knows I kawnt mek out 
what a gal teks anoder gal’s beau fer, 
when she ain’ even keerin fer him 
herself.” 

“ Priscilla,” said I, “ that ’s a prob- 
lem I ’ve often heard discussed but I 
never expect to see solved.” 

“Yessum,” fervently; “hit’s sum- 
thing ter cuss over.” 

I laughed aloud. “ That ’s one way 
of looking at it,” I said. 

“ An’ youse gwine ter hep me ? ” 

[ 118 ] 


The Kunjerin’ of Sally- Ann €L 

“ Oh, yes, if I can.” 

“ Lor’, chile, I knows you ’ll ’com- 
plish sumthing, kase when you sets 
yo’ mine ter anything you don’ ’low 
yo’self ter be beat.” 

“ W ell, go away now and leave me 
to think it over.” 

So Priscilla departed, and a mo- 
ment after Charlie Donald sauntered 
across the grass to me ; in his arms he 
carried something brown and velvety 
and altogether lovely. 

“ For you,” he said, dropping it on 
my knee. 

“ O Charlie ! ” I cried ; “ a setter 
puppy. How good of you ! ” 

“ Well, you know you wanted one.” 

“ I did, but where did you get it ? ” 

“Nathan Lewis, a negro whom I 
helped out of trouble (drunk Saturday 
night, as usual), brought it to me yes- 
terday.” 

“ Nathan Lewis ; and you say he is 
under obligations to you ? ” 

“ Yes,” in great surprise. 

[ 119 ] 


d Bayou Triste €t 

“ Then he will do anything for you ? ” 

“ No ; that does n’t follow.” 

“ I suppose not, but there can be 
no harm trying.” 

“ Trying what ? My brain moves 
slowly.” 

“ Listen,” I said, and I hastily nar- 
rated the story wherein Nathan played 
the part of hero and Angie that of the 
villain. 

“ Well, upon my word,” said Charlie ; 
“ fancy any one sighing for Nathan.” 

“ You forget,” I replied, “ ‘ Sally- 
Ann ’ain’ nothin’ on looks an’ never’ 
hed no luck nohow. ’ ” 

“ Sally must not expect too much, 
you mean ? ” 

“ No, she must ‘ down on her knees ’ 
for anything that comes her way.” 

“ Poor Sally- Ann ! ” 

“ Poor indeed ! ” I replied. 

“ Well, look here,” said he, “ I ’ll 
make a bargain with you. If you 
manage Angie I ’ll answer for Na- 
than.” 


[ 120 ] 


<H The Kunjerin’ of Sally- Ann €[ 

“ You think you can ? ” 

4 4 1 have great hopes.” 

“Very well, I shall depend on you.” 

“Good! Now suppose we talk of 
something else. Did you get those 
books I sent you ? ” 

That evening I gave Priscilla a 
small vial of golden liquid (and how 
could she recognize Fred’s favorite 
Chartreuse) and said impressively : 

“ Give this to Sally, Priscilla. Tell 
her to take four drops in a glass of 
water every night as the clock strikes 
twelve, and see that she says as she 
swallows it : 

“ If I drink this precious charm 
Spirits cannot do me harm.” 

Priscilla’s eyes swelled, but she re- 
peated slowly : 

“ Ef I drinks dis preshus charm 
Sperrits am gwine ter do me harm.” 

Fred joined me shortly after Pris- 
cilla had disappeared. “ Mary,” said 
he, “ you’re the biggest goose living. 

[ 121 ] 


^ Bayou Triste 


The idea of teaching that darkey all 
that nonsense ! ” 

“My dear boy,” I replied; “ one must 
fit the cure to the malady. Sally really 
thinks she is conjured, and if I used 
ordinary methods would allow her 
mind to influence her and ultimately 
fade away ; as it is, I have hopes of 
her recovery.” 

“ I expect you know,” he said. “ Y ou 
generally do.” 

“ Thanks so much. I see you are 
going to the quarters ; please tell Angie 
I want to speak to her.” 

“ If I remember.” 

“ See that you do ; this is very im- 
portant.” 

That his memory proved faithful 
was evidenced by the arrival of Angie 
the next day ; Angie, in a gorgeous and 
impossible costume of white cheese- 
cloth and a big hat freighted with 
poppies. 

When this delightful vision bright- 
ened my humble apartment I said : 

[ 122 ] 


The Kunjerin’ of Sally- Ann d 

“Angie, Mrs. Doane wrote me this 
morning to engage you as her cook. 
She says she has not forgotten your 
batter cakes ” (for Angie had cooked 
for us during one of Priscilla’s brief 
absences, and, faithless friend though 
she might be, was a jewel among serv- 
ants). “ I saw Mr. Lagroue this morn- 
ing, and he said he had no objection to 
your going ; and I felt sure you would 
want to go, for the city will suit you 
better than the country, won’t it ? ” 

“Yessum, dese folkses roun’ hyar 
sho’ is common.” 

If Angie could have guessed my un- 
complimentary thoughts she would 
not have looked at me so smilingly; 
but fortunately eyes do not speak, so 
she was blissfully unaware of my senti- 
ments. “ Think it over,” I said. “ You 
will have to go before Sunday, or Mrs. 
Doane will give the place to some one 
else.” 

“ I ’ll go, Miss Mary,” she cried ; 
“ dere ain’ nothin’ ter keep me.” 

[ 123 ] 


4HBayou TristeCL 


“ I did n’t think so,” I replied. “ I 
knew you held yourself above the 
people on the place.” (“ Horrid little 
snob ! ” I thought.) 

“Yessum; dere ain’ noboddy fitten 
ter sociate wid hyar.” 

“ Then I ’ll write to Mrs. Doane to 
expect you ? ” 

“ Yessum.” 

So early Saturday morning Angie 
departed for “ green fields and pastures 
new,” and that same afternoon Charlie 
called to acquaint me with the success 
of his own machinations. 

“ I sent for Nathan,” he said, “ and 
told him I ’d give him the place of 
hostler if he were only married. In 
fact, I ’d hold the offer open until he 
could find himself a wife, provided she 
were the right sort. I wanted her to 
take charge of the dairy, and would n’t 
tolerate any airified city negress around, 
but an honest, downright ugly one, 
the uglier the better. ‘ Priscilla Wil- 
son’s Sally ’ud do fus rate,’ he said 
[ 124 ] 


<1 The Kunjerin’ of Sally- Ann H 

ungallantly; ‘but Ise had oder ’ten- 
tions.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, well/ said I, ‘ it does n’t mat- 
ter, but I thought you ’d jump at a place 
where you ’ll get twelve dollars a month, 
besides board and a cabin. And as to 
Sally- Ann I ’ve heard Miss Rasley say 
she was one of the best girls on their 
place.’ 

“ ‘ That ’s true, Mass Charlie,’ he 
said. ‘ I ain’ ’sputin’ what you say ; but 
deres dat little Angie, I ’lowed ez — ’ 

“ ‘ Angie,’ I cried derisively, ‘ she 
would n’t look at you ; besides, she ’s 
gone to New Orleans. Mr. Lagroue 
told me this morning he was out of a 
cook.’ 

“‘You don’ sesso,’ said Nathan. 
‘Well, bein’ ez dats so, I reckon I’ll 
go over an’ see Sally.’ 

“ ‘You’d better hurry,’ I remarked, 
‘or the first thing you know some 
other fellow will cut in ahead of you.’ ” 

“ O Charlie,” 1 cried ; “ how could 
you ? ” 


[ 125 ] 


CIBayou Triste<H 


“ Surely you know,” he replied, 
“that nothing stimulates the mascu- 
line ardor like the fear of a rival. 
Nathan was departing certain of con- 
quest. Sally- Ann was therefore in a 
way valueless ; by my untruthful but 
potent speech I have sent her stock up 
many points. In love and war — you 
know the adage. But to change the 
subject. I ’m driving a new horse ; 
won’t you try him with me ? ” 

An hour or so later, as we were 
coming slowly home, we met Sally and 
Nathan walking down the big road to 
the quarters. Charlie checked his 
horse and called out : 

“Well, Nathan, I hope you were 
successful.” 

“ Yessir,” he replied, grinning ; “ hit’s 
all right.” 

“ Miss Mary,” said Sally- Ann, com- 
ing round to my side of the cart, “ I 
ain’ gwine ter fergit dat you cured me 
of bein’ kunjered. Widout you I ’d 
hev bin pintedly dade.” 

[ 126 ] 


€t The Iyunjerin’ of Sally- Ann 

“ Oh, no, Sally,” I protested ; “ you 
weren’t as ill as all that.” 

“ Yessum, I wuz, but I took yo’ 
med’cin regular an’ said dat potry reel 
keerful, an’ Ise all right; but ef hit 
hedn’ bin fur you I ’d hev bin dade 
an’ berried, an’ I ain’ gwine ter furgit 
hit neider.” 

“ Mass Charlie,” cried Nathan as 
we were driving off, “you wuz mis- 
tooken ’about dat oder nigger. Sally 
say noboddy ain’ wanten to marry her 
ceppen me.” 

“ Is n’t that too much ?” I exclaimed. 
“ Fancy her letting him know.” 

Charlie looked pensively at his 
whip. “You wouldn’t advise a false- 
hood, I ’m sure ! ” 

“ Of course not,” indignantly ; “ but 
there are ways of doing these things.” 

He laughed unrestrainedly. “Yes,” 
he agreed ; “ there are certainly ways.” 


[ 127 ] 


IX 


THE MISTRESS OF OAKWOOD 

M RS. Dameron laid down her 
book. “ It seems to me, 
Mary,” she said, “that life 
grows more difficult every day ; for 
those, I mean, who are out in the 
world, in the midst of the strain and 
stress. I regard it as an actual bless- 
ing to be allowed to vegetate and live 
forgotten in this far-away corner of the 
globe,” and she smiled and looked out 
at the grassy yard with contented 
eyes. 

Fred had gone to town on business 
and I was spending a week at Oak- 
wood. 

A great, gaunt, brick house, with 
many wings and numerous out-build- 
ings, it had formerly been the show 
place of the parish, and even now was 
[ 128 ] 


The Mistress of Oakwood €£ 

stately and imposing-looking in its 
pathetic decay. 

The conservatories were empty, the 
billiard rooms deserted. In the stables 
once famous for their thoroughbreds 
two lean horses ruminated over past 
glories, while the carriage-house 
sheltered a lopsided old buggy in place 
of the brilliant equipages that had 
once dazzled the parish. 

But, for all that, it still kept its dis- 
tinctive charm. 

The war had laid a heavy hand on 
Oakwood ; the iron grasp of military 
authority, from which it had never 
recovered. 

A negro regiment had camped upon 
the lawns and drilled beneath the 
library windows ; a shattered mirror 
in the great dining-room told the story 
of an officers’ midnight supper, and a 
bullet-hole in the study wall was a 
mute memento of a drunken sergeant’s 
morning call. 

Many years had come and gone 
9 [ 1 29 ] 


HBayou TristeCI 

since then,' and the bitterness of inter- 
necine strife had long since passed 
away, but the Oakwood exchequer 
had never been heavy enough at any 
time to permit of repairs to the old 
home. 

“ But, as I was saying, Mary,” re- 
peated Mrs. Dameron, “ every life has 
its compensations. Now, some people 
would find the humdrum existence we 
lead here quite unbearable, but you 
and I never tire of it, do we ? ” 

“No,” I replied, “but we mightn’t 
like it if we had never known any 
other.” 

“ That is true,” she agreed, “ it 
makes a difference ; ” and she fell to 
dreaming of a past in which monotony 
had played no part. 

I looked across at her — at the beau- 
tiful, aristocratic features whose charm 
time could never destroy — with the 
admiration I had always felt. Her 
dark-blue eyes with their jetty lashes 
were the eyes of a woman to whom 
[ 130 ] 


<H The Mistress of Oakwood 

life had brought many experiences, 
and the lovely serenity of cheek and 
brow was that of one who had fought 
her battles patiently and well, with 
faith throughout in a merciful Provi- 
dence. 

I wondered what her thoughts were 
as she gazed absently across the yard 
towards the long gray line of the 
levee. 

It was that golden hour of the after- 
noon when a haze lay over the gardens, 
when long shadows fell across the 
grass, and yellow butterflies idled 
among the roses. A faint breeze 
stirred the leaves and a bird’s song cut 
the silence like a call. 

Mrs. Dameron, in her white dress 
and black ribbons, with her air of 
graceful distinction and repose, looked 
unmistakably the great lady, the chat- 
elaine of some handsome establish- 
ment, rather than the impoverished 
mistress of a half-ruined home. 

The little hands lying on her knee 
[ 131 ] 


€L B a y o u Triste€L 

were rough and toil-stained, and the 
shoe showing beneath her summer 
gown was patched in more than one 
place, but the low-toned voice and ex- 
quisite smile made one forgetful of 
everything else. 

Though I knew that for many years 
she had struggled daily with the 
weary problem of making both ends 
meet, I was never able to think of her 
without the glamouring environment 
of wealth and ease, the purple and fine 
linen to which she had been born. 

Often in need herself, she was never 
too poor to offer shelter to some one 
poorer, and in consequence Oakwood 
House was an asylum for all the waifs 
and strays of the neighborhood. 

It was generally some distant con- 
nection, some worn-out old man tem- 
porarily out of work, or a penniless 
woman face to face with starvation, 
not knowing where to turn. She gave 
them a gracious hospitality in which 
there was no element of charity to 
[ 132 ] 


The Mistress of Oakwood d. 

hurt an easily wounded pride or sting 
a spirit made sensitive by misfortune. 

To-day as we sat together, some- 
times reading and sometimes looking 
up from our books to exchange a word 
or two, an old man in a rusty black 
suit and carpet slippers ambled around 
the corner of the house. He had a 
discontented face and suspicious eyes. 

“ Mary,” said Mrs. Dameron as he 
came up, “ this is Colonel Wilmer Gra- 
ham. Cousin Wilmer, Miss Rasley. I 
daresay you knew her grandfather.” 

Colonel Wilmer Graham may at 
some remote period of his existence 
have known how to make himself 
agreeable, but if so he had long ago 
forgotten it, and I was relieved when 
after a few grumbling sentences he 
disappeared into the hall. 

Mrs. Dameron smiled across at me. 

“ He is very old, Mary.” 

I did not answer. 

“ And very helpless.” 

Still I did not speak, for his un- 
[ 133 ] 


HBayou Triste H 


gracious acceptance of her kindness 
had angered me. 

“ There is nothing,” she went on, 
“that appeals to me more than old 
age, especially incompetent, dependent 
old age ; it is infinitely pathetic.” 

“ He might have been more cour- 
teous,” I said. 

“ Of course, but he has had a great 
deal of trouble and we must make al- 
lowances. It is hard to do so when 
we are young, I know ; for I was as 
intolerant as you are once, Mary, but 
1 have grown wiser with age.” 

“ I think you were always good,” I 
exclaimed. 

“You are an excellent tonic,” she 
laughed back ; “if I listened to you I 
should end by having a very fine 
opinion of myself.” 

A big white hen and her noisy 
brood strolled across the grass, inter- 
rupting our conversation. I looked 
at them enviously. “You have such 
luck,” I sighed. “ Priscilla’s last set- 
[ 134 ] 


€t The Mistress of Oakwood H 

ting was a perfect failure, and I know 
the eggs were good, for I bought them 
myself from Madame Jean Philippe.” 

“Did you hear her granddaughter 
had returned ? ” 

“No, but I am very glad.” 

“ I heard she did not intend to re- 
ceive her, but I suppose the ties of 
blood were too strong. This is a piti- 
ful world, Mary.” 

“ Miss Marg’ret,” said old Sukey’s 
voice behind us, “ big Mary’s Betsey 
say pleas’m step down an’ tek a look 
at her baby ; she feared he gwine ter 
die.” 

Mrs. Dameron rose instantly. “ Get 
the paregoric and peppermint out of 
the medicine chest, Sukey,” she or- 
dered. “ I ’ll be back in a few min- 
utes, Mary ; I suppose you can amuse 
yourself while I am away.” 

For a time I lay back in the big 
rocking-chair on the gallery, content 
to be alone and watch the passers-by 
on the road beyond. 

[ 135 ] 


<1 Bayou TristeH 


They were few and far between ; 
now it was an old negro jogging past 
on a rusty mule, now a tip-tilted 
bakers cart, its faded gray sides show- 
ing over the top of the Cherokee hedge. 
Once Dr. Starrs new buggy flashed past, 
followed by the Pattonville stage with 
its tired horses and dusty passengers. 

A red-sailed oyster lugger drifted 
dreamily down the bayou, and a swift 
moving steamboat sent the waves 
tossing over the top of the levee. 

I got up and went inside, for the 
high-water situation was too much for 
my nerves. 

After lingering awhile in the sweet- 
scented old hall I wandered into the 
drawing-room. As I entered the door 
the picture between the windows 
seemed to spring from its frame to 
greet me. 

It was of a young girl in the riding 
dress of the day, with her whip in her 
hand, her dog at her feet, but so 
spirited, so lifelike in the perfection of 
[ 136 ] 


H The Mistress of Oakwood 

its coloring, that it was difficult to be- 
lieve it a mere portrait. On the oppo- 
site wall was its match, the picture of 
a young man in the uniform of a Con- 
federate captain. Both paintings were 
the work of an artist, and were distin- 
guished by their singular look of 
radiant youth. 

I glanced from one to the other, 
scarcely knowing which delighted me 
most ; the boyish husband who had laid 
down his life at Winchester, or the 
young wife looking with untroubled 
eyes upon a world that had brought 
her so much sorrow. 

“ Mary,” called Mrs. Dameron from 
the hall, “ where are you ? Dreaming 
dreams in the twilight ? Bring us some 
lights, Sukey.” 

“ Was the baby really ill ? ” I asked. 

“ Oh, no, the usual thing — impru- 
dent eating. They have no judgment 
— no sense. In some respects slavery 
was better for them, they are noth- 
ing but children, — ignorant, helpless 
[ 137 ] 


Bayou Triste€L 

children, — after all I ” Her voice 
sounded tired. 

“ Dear Mrs. Dameron,” I cried ; 
“ will you give me this portrait of 
yourself some day ? I would not ask 
it if there were any one else.” 

To my surprise her eyes shone 
with intense gratitude. “ How like 
you ! ” she said ; “ you have guessed 
my trouble. How I dread to die and 
leave nobody to care what becomes of 
those poor bits of canvas ! Sometimes, 
Mary, I have thought of burning them, 
of cutting them to strips with my own 
hands, rather than leave them to be a 
tax and worry to indifferent connec- 
tions. I was in a shop once in New 
Orleans and saw a great heap of por- 
traits, the De Folin family’s, piled 
against the wall and covered over with 
dust and mold and cobwebs. It dis- 
tressed me beyond expression and 
broke my heart to think that some 
day that might be our fate.” 

“ Give them both to me,” I cried ; 

[ 138 ] 


Ct The Mistress of Oakwood €£ 

“ and I will take such care of them ! 
You are not afraid to trust me, are 
you ? ” 

“ Need you ask ? ” she said, stooping 
to give me one of her rare kisses. 
“And now let us have some music 
while Sukey is preparing tea.” 

“ Sing to me,” I pleaded ; “ I am so 
tired of my own songs.” 

“ As you wish,” and she seated her- 
self at the piano and ran her fingers 
over the keys. Song after song floated 
through the great room, old-fashioned 
melodies whose yellowed sheets I had 
seen in my mother’s portfolio. Then 
after a momentary pause she began 
again : 

“ Forget ? Ah, no, no boon ’t would be 
To seal the lips of Memory, 

To quaff the Lethean draught and glide 
Down cold oblivion’s icy tide. 

“ Amidst the world’s despair and strife 
We learn the bitterness of life. 

We miss the sunshine, lose the flowers. 

But oh, the past is always ours ! 

[ 139 ] 


<HBayou TristeCL 


“ The happy past when hearts were young, 
When love came tripping from the tongue, 
When Hope low breathed of joys to be — 

Forget ? Nay, life is Memory ! ” 

Her voice died away ; the low, 
lovely voice, full of tenderness and 
sympathy. 

I sat at the window, gazing into the 
gathering twilight. When she fin- 
ished I did not even turn around to 
thank her — there was no necessity, 
— she understood. 

I was thinking of her life, of the 
youth that had begun so brilliantly, 
and I found myself wondering what 
my own story would be twenty years 
from then. Would I too — 

“ Mary,” laughed a soft voice at my 
side ; “ wake up 1 Old Sukey has 
called us twice to tea, and here is 
Cousin Wilmer.” 


[ 140 ] 


X 


WHEN THE WATERS CAME UP 

I TRIED vainly to hold my 
thoughts together ; in spite of 
myself they wandered to the levee, 
where Fred and Charlie Donald and 
old Colonel Lossing, assisted by all 
the able-bodied men of the neighbor- 
hood, were fighting what seemed to be 
a hopeless fight against the water. 

An hour ago, as I drove past, I 
stopped a moment to watch the men 
striving with logs and timber outworks 
and bags of earth to keep out the 
enemy. 

Then behind Uncle Ephr’um’s broad 
back I had shed a quiet tear or two all 
to myself. 

Fred, catching sight of me, waved 
his hat from the pile of lumber where 
he stood, and Charlie came running 
[141 ] 


CLBayou TristeH 


down to the carriage to ask me to pray 
my hardest that the levee would hold, 
and I had tried hard to make some gay 
response and had failed signally. 

Now as I sat in a corner of the big 
pew I was paying but slight heed to 
the service. Mr. Pyrl’s earnest voice, 
the choir’s musical grotesqueries, the 
snores of old Mr. Gaston in the pew 
behind me formed part of a drowsy 
whole of which I was conscious but 
unheeding. 

Through the open windows came 
the odor of new-cut grass and the 
heavy perfume of lilies. The rectory 
yard rioted with blooms, and a great 
bumble-bee, drunk with the sweetness 
of blush-roses, wandered aimlessly into 
the church to delight the children by 
his waverings. 

Mr. Pyrl’s old cook sat on the rectory 
gallery shelling peas; she was hum- 
ming to herself in decorous under- 
tones, her head nodding as she worked. 

A dominicker chicken with yellow 
[ 142 ] 


When the Waters Came up<H 

legs and featherless wings came cau- 
tiously up the steps. He paused with 
his head on one side, his eye shining 
brightly, to reflect upon the situation. 
Old Lisa, overcome by religious fervor, 
closed her eyes as she swayed back and 
forth. 

The chicken, encouraged by her in- 
difference, drew a step nearer, and after 
a moment’s indecision sprang boldly 
upon the pan. There was a crash — a 
smothered scream, the pan went one 
way, the chicken the other, while Lisa, 
thus rudely recalled to things mundane, 
surveyed the ruin with darkly brood- 
ing eyes. 

I brought my reluctant gaze indoors 
to meet Mrs. Dameron’s smile ; she 
too had been looking out. Mr. Pyrl, 
blissfully unconscious of our backslid- 
ings, gave out the hymn. 

We rose resignedly and the choir 
fell manfully to work. 

The second verse was trailing its 
mournful length along when the 
[ 143 ] 


CIBayou Triste^H 


church-door opened. There was a rus- 
tle of silken skirts, a faint odor of vio- 
lets, and Mrs. Keith Ewing drifted 
languidly down the aisle to her pew. 

The congregation, fast becoming 
somnolent, roused to new life. Gowns 
like Mrs. Ewing’s were not often seen 
in Vieuxtemps church. 

Old Mrs. Grant bent her beribboned 
bonnet into the next pew. “When 
did she come ? ” she asked in a loud 
stage aside. 

“ Last night,” replied her neighbor 
in the same wheezy whisper ; “ high- 
water brought them, — her and her 
husband.” 

I listened interestedly, for the Ewings 
were our near neighbors. They were 
rarely at home, however, spending most 
of their time in town, where they found 
amusements more congenial than the 
country could provide. 

Not yet twenty-five, married to a 
man several years her senior, mistress 
of a handsome home, and one of the 
[ 144 ] 


<H When the Waters Came up H 

petted leaders of an eminently exclu- 
sive society, there were many who 
found it in their hearts to envy Mrs. 
Ewing, but I, who had accidentally 
stumbled on the inside history of her 
marriage, was not one of them. 

We had been good friends and con- 
stantly together when I too 4 ‘dwelt 
in Babylon,” but of late years we had 
drifted somewhat apart. Not that we 
cared the less, but circumstances had 
prevented our meeting and diverse in- 
terests had allowed us to idly acquiesce 
in the separation. 

But I felt an interest in her always, 
often wondering what would be the 
outcome of her hasty marriage, made 
in pique and without affection. 

Gratified ambition and social vic- 
tories might content some women, but 
I knew Agnes Ewing too well to 
believe that they would satisfy her. 
The restless, ardent nature, which 
masked itself under a careless world- 
liness that deceived many, demanded 
io [ 145 ] 


<U;Bayou TristeC l 

more of life than the empty triumphs 
that fill the cup of some. 

To-day as I glanced at her dark 
head bent reverently over her clasped 
Lands I would have given much to 
have known the tenor of her prayer. 

The sermon began, a genuine, old- 
fashioned appeal to Christians ; not a 
theological discourse glittering with 
epigrams and meaningless phrases. 

I listened intently, ashamed of my 
former inattention ; Mr. Gaston’s 
snores ceased, Mrs. Dameron’s eyes 
deepened sympathetically, and Agnes 
Ewing’s lovely face lost its accustomed 
look of patient boredom. 

“ Make the most of your opportuni- 
ties,” concluded the rector ; “ life is full 
of disappointments and heart-aches, but 
are we not often responsible for them ? 
Do we not make our own tragedies ? 
If we were more patient, if we would 
eliminate self and recall that love 
‘ suffereth all things, endureth all 
things, hopeth all things,’ and would 
[ 146 ] 


ft When the Waters Came upff 

put aside the petty vanity and foolish- 
pride that hamper our best efforts and 
strive each in his own way to bring 
some sunshine into the lives of others, 
there would be fewer moments of de- 
spondency and despair. 

44 4 She loveth much,’ saith the 
Master. Ah, my brethren, shall we 
not so live that at the last, when we 
come to lay our burdens down, it will 
be remembered of us, not our short- 
comings, not our sins, not our many 
faults and omissions, but that we 
loved much ? ” 

Simple words enough, and not even 
marked by originality, but spoken so 
earnestly and with such evident con- 
viction that no one could listen un- 
moved. 

When we streamed out into the 
sunshine, momentarily subdued and 
thoughtful, Mrs. Ewing joined me. 

44 Have pity on me,” she said when 
having exchanged greetings we were 
about to part, 44 ask me up to dinner 
[ 147 ] 


C;Bayou Triste|[ 

with you. Keith told me not to 
expect him, and it is horribly lonely 
in that big old house.” 

“ Come, by all means,” I said ; “ this 
is Priscilla’s evening out, and we may 
dine on bread and water, but you are 
very welcome.” 

“ I know Priscilla of old,” she said, 
sweeping her silken skirts into the old 
barouche. “You cannot frighten me 
off.” 

“ I suppose the high water brought 
you down,” I said as we jogged along ; 
“ that ’s the first good thing it has 
accomplished.” 

“ What a pretty speech, Mary,” she 
said ; “ and, would you believe it, I ’m 
just trusting enough to think you mean 
it.” 

“ Because you know how foolishly 
weak I am about you.” 

“Not foolishly, but sensibly, pru- 
dently so,” she laughed. 

“ Tell me something of yourself,” I 
went on, turning to look into eyes that 
[ 148 ] 


When the Waters Came up €f 

seemed to me to have grown darker 
and deeper. “ Is much going on in 
town ? ” 

“ Mercifully no.’’ 

“ So you had time to remember us ? ” 

“ I always remember you ; indeed, I 
don’t think you realize how much I 
miss you. You were such a comfort, 
Mary ; you always saw the same amus- 
ing things I saw. I would have loved 
you for that alone, and now there is 
nobody. ” 

“ How about Mrs. Kinzel ? I hear 
you are very intimate.” 

“A friendship de convenances she 
said. “At first she was bearable, but 
lately, since she has begun to be taken 
up and invited around, she has become 
quite impossible.” 

“ She owes it all to you,” I re- 
marked. 

“ O my dear, she has already for- 
gotten that.” 

“ I never liked her. Ah,” looking 
towards the levee, “ there they are ; 
[ 149 ] 


B a y o u Triste€[ 

that’s Mr. Donald in gray and Fred 
in the dark-blue shirt. Does n’t look 
much like a cotillion leader, does he ? ” 
“ Do you see my husband ? ” 

“ No ; I suppose he ’s up above some- 
where. I ’m going to stop and ask the 
latest news.” A little creole came 
down, lifting his hat as we drew up. 

“ Any change ? ” I asked, as one 
would inquire about an invalid. 

“Not much, madame ; we found a 
weak spot at Grasslands, but we patched 
it up before it did any great harm.” 

“ How will it all end ? ” 

He shrugged his shoulders : “ It 
must break somewhere,” he said. 

Priscilla’s dinner was everything to 
be desired, but Agnes and I did scant 
justice to it, our informant’s parting 
words having taken the savor out of 
life. 

Whose place would go? Would 
the break be on this side of the bayou, 
or would a merciful Providence ordain 
that it occur on the other bank ? 

[ 150 ] 


€[ When the Waters Came up €f 

And when would it be? To-night, 
this afternoon, to-morrow? 

“ Come into the garden,” I said, 
“you’re not eating a mouthful and 
neither am I.” 

“ It is not your fault,” said Agnes to 
Priscilla, who had witnessed our neg- 
lect of her viands with rising anger ; 
“nothing could have been nicer.” 

“ ’T ain’ no use ter cook dese days,” 
she grumbled, “Mass’ Fred don’ eat 
enuff ter keep a bird alive an’ Miss 
Mary ain much better.” 

“ We ’ve been on a dreadful strain 
here,” I explained. “ Of course it is 
worse for Fred — ” 

“ No it is n’t,” broke in Agnes, “ there 
is something he can do ; he does n’t 
have to sit with folded hands and wait. 
That is the horror of being a woman — 
the waiting. Oh, Mary, how sweet 
the old garden is, — not a thing 
changed.” 

“No. Kate says she believes if she 
came back a hundred years from now 
[ 151 ] 


CBayou Triste €f 

she would find the same mocking- 
birds and butterflies and roses she had 
left behind.” 

“ I saw Kate yesterday. She sent 
you her best love. Your brother is a 
fortunate fellow.” 

“ Yes, I think so. I am very fond 
of her. I know they will be happy.” 

“Oh, as to that!” she shrugged 
her shoulders. 

“ Cynicism, ” 1 cried, “ on such a 
lovely day.” 

“ I ’m no cynic,” she retorted, “ I 
wish I were. I ’m a poor fool crying 
for the moon ; whose bitterness against 
the hopelessness of life finds expression 
in words. Y our real cynic never rants ; 
he accepts everything as a matter of 
course. It is the idealist who cries 
out, the dreamer who is always hoping 
against hope. The people who begin 
by demanding much of life are those 
that end by expecting nothing.” 

“ Do you demand much ? ” I asked. 

“ I am a woman,” she said. 

[ 152 ] 


H When the Waters Came up €£ 

I laughed. “ How very oracular.” 

“ Or comprehensive,” she corrected. 
“ By the way, I have n’t offered you my 
good wishes yet ; I have never met Mr. 
Delancey, but I hear he is altogether 
desirable and I feel sure — ” 

“ Don’t ! ” I cried, breaking in on the 
smoothly turned phrases, “ you don’t 
mean a word of all that. You are 
thinking at this very moment how 
foolish I am to be so happy ; that it 
is not going to last, and that I shall 
some day come to the end of my 
dream.” 

“ Yes,” she said, “ I was.” 

“ But I will not, Agnes ; it will be 
the same fifty years from now.” 

“We all think that. But how 
strange you should guess my thoughts ; 
you are very clever.” 

“Not at all, but I know you.” 

“ Well that is more than I do my- 
self.” 

“You said you were crying for the 
moon, so I infer you are dissatisfied.” 

[ 153 ] 


CIBayou Triste<1 

“ Oh, wise young judge ! ” she 
mocked. 

“ And knowing also your intensity 
of purpose, and your capacity for get- 
ting what you want, I go a step far- 
ther and conclude that the particular 
moon in question is something forbid- 
den to you.” 

She laughed, but rather sadly. 

“ ‘ Forbidden ’ sounds so Frenchy, 
Mary. It ’s nothing I should n’t have, 
but something I want very badly, and 
threw away with my own hands.” 

I stared at her in silence ; what could 
she refer to but the old love affair that 
I hoped she had forgotten. 

“ Why, how pale you are,” she cried, 
“ have I said anything — ” 

“No, nothing,” I answered hastily. 

“ I ’m afraid you had some uncom- 
plimentary thought about me, Mary ; 
you looked positively frightened. 
Don’t worry. I ’ll never do anything 
out of the way, even supposing that 
I wanted to. I ’m like the old lady 
[ 154 ] 


CIWhen the Waters Came upH 

in the play who said she was too proud 
to do wrong. It ’s a good thing, pride, 
in its way.” 

“ You couldn’t have listened to the 
sermon,” I said, “ and you looked so 
attentive ; what a fraud you are, after 
all.” 

“ I did n’t miss a word ; he preached 
on love. I thought it an odd theme 
for a little, lonely, gray-haired bachelor. 
I wondered if he had ever had an affair 
in his life.” 

I tried to look unconcerned, but was 
miserably conscious of my rising color 
and the amused expression in Agnes’ 
dark eyes. 

“ So,” she said, after a moment’s ob- 
servation, “that is how you employ 
your time. No wonder you are not 
bored out here. 4 You thought to break 
a country heart,’ etc. Fie, Mary, I 
thought better things of you.” 

Before I could reply, Joe came dash- 
ing across the yard, crying at the top 
of his voice, “ She done bruk ! de levee 
[ 155 ] 


HBayou TristeCL 

done bus ! Glory, glory, de bank done 
gone.” 

Agnes and I were on our feet in an 
instant. “ Where ? ” I cried franti- 
cally, “ where ? Don’t you hear me, 
you wretched little boy ? On what 
place?” 

But he was gone without answering, 
back to the levee, whither Agnes and 
I hastened to follow him. We fairly 
flew over the grass, with utter disre- 
gard for our skirts ; now stumbling 
over a root, now stopping a moment 
to catch a hurried breath. Agnes 
went so much faster than I that I 
stared at her in amazement. 

“ Why should you care so much ? ” 
I panted, “ even if your place goes, — 
it is — not — your all ! ” 

“ Keith would care so,” she answered, 
“ he never says a great deal ; that is 
not his way ; but his heart is wrapped 
up in the ‘Cedars.’” 

A light began to break upon me ; the 
unexpected had happened ; far from 
[ 156 ] 


4H When the Waters Came up Cf 

regretting the old affair she had fallen 
in love with her own husband. The 
moon she was crying for was his 
affection. 

My thoughts came disconnectedly 
as I raced along, but of one thing I 
felt sure ; if Keith Ewing knew the 
truth, her happiness would not be long 
in coming. 

He had been very much in love 
with her at the time of their marriage, 
and while her indifference might have 
done much to chill a younger man, I 
knew an affection like his was not 
easily outlived. 

The front gate fortunately hap- 
pened to be open, and we dashed 
through it and up the levee without 
ceremony. 

44 Where is everybody ? ” T cried, sur- 
prised by the semi-deserted appearance 
of things. 44 Fred ! Charlie ! somebody, 
come here ! ” 

44 Look ! ” cried Agnes, grasping at 
my arm and speaking in a strained, 
[ 157 ] 


f Bayou TristeCI 


unnatural voice, “ yonder — across the 
bayou — the bank is gone ! ” 

It was indeed true. Southmeade, 
Grasslands, Oakw r ood, the “ Cedars ” 
were safe ; the crevasse was opposite. 

I felt ashamed of my sudden rush of 
relieved joy. 

“ Those poor people,” I murmured 
contritely, staring at the broken banks, 
the rushing water, the desolate, miser- 
able scene with sympathetic eyes. 

“ Pitiful, is n’t it ? ” said a man’s 
voice at my elbow, “ one man’s meat 
is another man’s poison.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Ewing,” I cried, “ was it 
not very unexpected ? ” 

“ Yes, we thought the break would be 
at my place. I had just ordered the 
men to a place of safety when there 
was a loud report, like a cannon shot, 
and we saw the whole bank opposite 
part in two and slide down into the 
bayou. It was a horrible sight, yet 
I can’t pretend to be sorry. It saved 
our place.” 


[ 158 ] 













* 






- 







s 























€£When the Waters Came up €1 

“ Can it be closed ? ” I asked, con- 
scious of the guilty hope that it could 
not be. 

“ Hardly ; not at this stage of the 
water anyhow. We are going over 
there now to see what we can do. 
They were taken by surprise, for they 
thought their levee comparatively safe ; 
crayfish holes, I suppose. Your brother 
and young Donald have already gone, 
and I only waited to see you two and 
relieve your minds.” 

“ That was very kind of you. We 
have been dreadfully anxious. Agnes 
has been positively wretched.” 

“ Agnes ? ” surprisedly. “ Why — my 
— why — Agnes, what is it ? ” for the 
tears were streaming down her face, 
and she was trembling from head to 
foot. 

“It is the relief,” she stammered. “I 
was frightened to death; I thought it was 
the 4 Cedars,’ and I knew how much you 
loved it — what it would mean to you.” 

“You care ? ” he began. 

[ 159 ] 


H Bayou TristeH 


But I had strolled out of hearing, 
apparently absorbed in the dreary 
scene opposite. 

That night, however, after a merry 
supper, — the reactionary result of 
days of suspense — when the men 
were lingering over their cigars and 
Agnes and I were alone, she laid her 
cheek against mine with the grace 
that characterized her, and whispered : 
“You said I usually got what I wanted, 
didn’t you? Well you were right, 
Mary, you always are. The moon is 
mine ! ” 


[ 160 ] 


XI 


MA’ JANE’S WEDDIN’ 

A S I came out of the plantation 
dairy, with Joe following in 
my wake, I met 44 ole Simon’s 
Marthy,” an old woman somewhere on 
the shady side of seventy years ; always 
grotesque looking, owing to her sin- 
gular combination of garments, which 
were never by any chance of the same 
hue, she was more noticeable than usual 
to-day, because of the settled gloom 
that had possession of her features. 

44 Mornin’, Miss Mary,” she said with 
a deep curtsey, 44 you sho’ is a good 
sight fur ole eyes.” 

Now I had known my visitor for 
many years, and long experience had 
taught me that a conversation begun 
in this flowery fashion eventually 
closed with an appeal for assistance. 

u [ 161 ] 


CL Bayou TristeCL 

“You haven’t been to see me for 
an age,” I said, seating myself on a 
stump. (“Joe, take that pitcher to the 
kitchen.) How have you been ? ” 

“ Poly, tank the Lord ! Poly, Miss 
Mary.” 

“ You look as though something 
had worried you.” 

“ Yessum, Ise been thru deep waters ; 
my gran’ darter, Ma’ Jane Vincent, wuz 
married larst night : yessum, married 
ole Sam Farber’s son, Jack, him what’s 
carpenter on de Harrell place.” 

“ Why that ’s a very good match,” 
I said. “ Mary Jane, if I remember, 
is quite a pretty girl.” 

“ Yessum, an’ a good gal what alius 
mines her own bizness an’ ain’ sputin 
wid noboddy, an’ ’t ain’ her fault she 
dun hed de trubble she hed larst 
night.” 

“ What happened ? ” I asked sym- 
pathetically. 

“ Why, you knows, Miss Mary, ever 
sence wese bin moved ter town, dose 
[ 162 ] 


UMa’ Jane’s Weddin’<H 

low down niggers on toder side of de 
canals bin mad wid us, kase we don’ 
wanter ’sociate wid ’em ; Ise been 
useter quality folkses an’ house nig- 
gers, an’ hit sho duz go ’ginst me ter 
put up wid dem town trash what ain’ 
got de manners dey wuz born wid.” 

44 It ’s a pity you did n’t stay on the 
plantation,” I said ; for I knew she had 
only moved away because her grand- 
children thought they would be more 
44 free ” living in the village than in one 
of our cabins. 

44 Well, Miss Mary,” she said , 44 deres 
no countin’ fur tases ; an’ de chillun 
wuz so sot on movin’, I jes’ hed ter 
give in ; but I reckon ef dey knowed 
what wuz gwine ter happen at Ma’ 
Jane’s weddin’, dey ’d hev been satisfied 
whar dey wuz.” 

44 Tell me about it,” I said. 

44 Yessum, dat ’s jes what I ’m gwine 
ter do, kase I knows you hez a kine 
hyart an’ feels sorry fur de pore an’ de- 
pressed. 


[ 163 ] 


HBayou Triste d 

“ Well, larst night we ’d laid off ter 
hev Ma’ Jane’s weddin’, an’ seein’ ez 
we spressly wanted ter hev hit ’sleet, 
we jes axed ’bout a dozen folkses 
ter cum ter us house an’ sist. De 
rooms wuz lookin’ reel party-like wid 
candles settin’ ’roun’ in bottles, an’ 
we sho did hev a fine supper ; roas’ 
pig an’ taters an’ clabber an corn- 
bread an’ a big cake in de middle 
of de table what Miss Sally Harrell 
sont us ; an’ Simon an’ me ’greed ez 
nobody cud n’t hev things nicer ’n 
we hed ’em.” She paused and a 
look of intense regret swept over her 
face. 

“Well, Miss Mary, you mayn’ 
bleeve hit, but jes arfter de cerri- 
munny, when Brer Hicks hed say ter 
Ma’ Jane an’ Jack ‘ I pernounces you 
man an’ wife,’ we heerd de mos’ 
scandellous gwineson in de street out- 
side ; yellin’ an’ cussin’ an’ sech lan- 
gwidge ez ud tun yo’ hyar gray ; an’ 
de do’ done bus open an’ bout twenty 
[ 164 ] 


M a ’ Jane’s Weddin’C[ 

of dem no count town niggers cum 
prancin’ in. 

44 Miss Mary, I wuz dat flammergasted 
I liketer swooned. Brer Hicks he 
’vance an’ say, sez he, 4 Bredderin an’ 
Sistren, dis is mos’ onchrisshen gwine- 
son, an’ I vises yo ter lebe dese premises, 
kase sein’ ez you warnt ’vited you ain’ 
got no call ter stay.’ 

“JDen dat big black nigger Jeems 
Andrews ups an’ sez, ‘ Brer Hicks, you 
keep yo’ jawin’ fur Sundays ; dese hyar 
folkses puts on airs an’ sidders deyselves 
bettern we all, an’ we ain’ gwine ter 
stan’ hit.’ An’ wid dat, Miss Mary, 
chile, fo’ you kud say Jim Robinson 
dey dun clar’d off every blessed thing 
on de table — pig an’ clabber an’ ’lasses 
an’ taters an’ cake ; dey all went jis like 
a swarm of bees dun bin at ’em.” 

44 That was outrageous,” I cried in- 
dignantly. 44 Why did n’t you send for 
the constable ? ” 

44 1 ’m cumin’ ter dat, Miss Mary. 
Well, dey wuz dat contrarifyin’ an’ dat 

[ 165 ] 


C^Bayou Triste Cl 


’suitin’ dat Ma’ Jane an’ wealls frens 
’eluded ter git out an’ leve dem var- 
mints ter ac ez dey choosed, but jes ez 
we wuz slippin’ out, Jeems Andrews hed 
de insurance ter ’pose a toas’ ter de bride, 
an’ Simon wuz dat suited he let out 
wid he right arm an’ knockt him flat 
on he back.” 

“ Good ! ” I said warmly. 

“ No ’m, bad ! ” replied old Marthy, 
“ kase jes at dat minnit de constubble, 
tracted by de yellin’, cum a-runnin’ 
an’ ’rested de whole lot, my ole man 
same ez de oders. 

“ W e tried ter splain, but twarnt no 
good, an’ dey done tuk him ter jail, an’ 
dar he ’s bleeged ter stay twell we kin 
git de money ter bail him out. Now 
you knows, Miss Mary, dat wuz hard 
on us ter hev so much trubble fur 
nothin’, an’ Ma’ Jane ’s so shame’ she 
don’ do nothin’ but cry.” 

I had long since guessed that old 
Marthy’s visit was not due solely to my 
personal attractions, but in this instance 
[ 166 ] 


Cf M a ’ Jane’s W e d d i n ’ 

I felt such genuine sympathy for the 
afflicted family, whose only crime was 
a desire to be “ ’sleet,” that I was more 
than willing to help them. 

I was about to ask the amount 
necessary to restore Simon to his 
family, when Fred rode up, and, upon 
learning the situation, volunteered to 
go over at once and straighten matters 
out. 

Marthy departed with voluble pro- 
testations of gratitude and affection, 
but of course I knew I would not see 
her again until the Gage family were 
once more in difficulties. 

A day or two later, as I looked out 
of the library window I saw a wagon 
loaded with household belongings (the 
red tester shining in the sun) moving 
slowly down the big road to the 
“ Quarters. ” 

“ Who is that moving on the 
place ? ” I asked Fred. 

“ Old Simon’s crowd,” he laughed. 
“ Their brief experience of town life 
[ 167 ] 


HBayou TristeH 


has more than satisfied them, and, like 
many other seekers after metropolitan 
pleasures, they have decided that after 
all the country is not to be despised. 
Hereafter they will content themselves 
with such humdrum pursuits as S<!)uth- 
meade can afford them.” 

That night, when I was giving out 
breakfast, Priscilla remarked to me, 
apropos of the prodigals’ return : 

“ Hit ’s a good thing ter know when 
youse well off, ain’ hit, Miss Mary ? ” 


[ 168 ] 


XII 


THE SACRIFICE OF ELIJAH 

T HE Donald plantation adjoined 
ours, and as Charlie and I had 
been friends since our mud-pie 
days, there was nothing unusual in my 
escorting him out to look at Elijah. 

“ You must say something very nice 
about him,” I said, as we crossed the 
yard, Charlie’s enthusiasm not being 
his strong point. 

In this instance, however, he proved 
satisfactory, saying almost as much as 
even I could wish. 

“ But why call him Elijah ? ” he 
asked. 

“ Because that ’s his name,” I replied. 
A silence fell, punctuated by the 
grunts of the small black and white 
pig beside whose pen we stood. 

[ 169 ] 


<HBayou Triste€L 

4 4 1 fail to seethe connection, ’’pursued 
my visitor. 44 Elijah was a prophet.” 

4 4 And I trust this Elijah will prove 
a profit to me,” I said flippantly. 

The glance Charlie sent me was half 
scorn and half compassion. <J And 
was that the reason — ” he began. 

44 No, no ! ” I cried, ashamed of my 
wretched attempt at a pun. 44 He ’s 
named after old Uncle ’Lijah By rum, 
who gave him to me.” 

44 Upon what occasion ? ” 

44 1 begged Fred to bail him out of 
jail Saturday, and the next day he 
appeared with his namesake.” 

44 Bread cast upon the waters.” 

44 Peculiar-looking bread,” I observed. 

44 W ell, now he ’s here, what do you 
mean to do with him ? ” 

44 Keep him, of course.” 

44 You ’d better send him back to the 
4 Quarters.’ ” 

44 And lose him among all those plan- 
tation pigs ? No, thank you.” 

44 1 ’ve heard you discourse for hours 

[ HO] 


€£ The Sacrifice of Elijah^ 

upon the commonness of keeping pigs 
around a yard.” 

44 I was referring to other people’s,” 
I answered shamelessly ; 44 but anyhow, 
this is different. Elijah will stay in 
his pen ; and, way off here, where ’s the 
harm ? ” 

44 There ’s the principle of the thing.” 

44 Oh, bother ! ” 

44 He will be stolen.” 

44 Hardly.” 

44 And he ’ll get out and root up your 
rose-bushes and Uncle Ephr’um’s vege- 
tables, and he will feast upon your 
young chickens, and altogether carry 
death and devastation in his path.” 

44 What a pessimist you are,” I re- 
marked, leading the way to the garden. 
44 Now I predict very different things 
for him. He will be fed on butter- 
milk and sweet potatoes. He will wax 
strong and portly, and the fame of him 
will go the country round, until all the 
butchers in the parish will crave on 
bended knees the privilege of owning 
[ 171 ] 


f Bayou Triste<H 

him. Then I shall sell him, and my 
purse will grow so heavy that I shall 
stand in great danger of being married 
for my fortune.” 

Charlie laughed. “ O golden dream ! ” 
he cried, opening the garden gate. 
“ And what will you do with the 
money, even granting that you make 
any ? Squander it on a bonnet ? ” 

“A bonnet, in this benighted neigh- 
borhood ! ” 

“We may be benighted,” said Char- 
lie, “ but we don’t go bareheaded.” 

“ You don’t wear fifteen-dollar hats,” 
I answered. 

'■■■ • 

By now we had reached the grass 
plot in the centre of the garden encir- 
cled by slim mimosas, with the great 
sweet-olive tree in the middle. 

Uncle Ephr’um was at work in the 
soft spring sunshine, spading rose- 
bushes. 

Uncle Ephr’um and I, during our 
long acquaintance (dating back to my 
babyhood), had had many fierce differ- 
[ 172 ] 


The Sacrifice of Elijah <H 

ences of opinion ; sometimes the vic- 
tory was mine, again he came off with 
banners flying, but there was one sub- 
ject upon which we perfectly agreed, 
and that was the garden. 

My fancy for untrained vines and 
climbing roses ; for old-fashioned, 
sweet-scented plants and flowering 
shrubs that my grandmother had 
loved before me ; for nature uncon- 
fined — permitted to follow her own 
glad will — met with his delighted 
approval. 

In consequence the acre of ground 
allotted to us by long custom was a 
riot of sweetness and color. 

He was never too busy to help me 
with my flowers, and would drop any 
other duty to transplant a rose or set 
out violets ; to prune the branches of 
encroaching trees or discuss with me 
the advisability of thinning out the 
cannas or leaving them to luxuriate 
unmolested. 

We would go into mutual raptures 
[ 173 ] 


Bayou TristeCL 


over the progress of our rose cuttings, 
and one bright spring morning I re- 
member being awakened by a knock 
at my window, to find Uncle Ephr’um 
standing outside with the pews that 
the first syringa bud had opened ! 

To-day he met me with pleasant 
tidings. 

“ Miss Mary, chile,” he said, after 
greeting Charlie, “ dat Lamar que rose 
of yo’ granma’s done put out a shoot.” 

“ O, Uncle Ephr’um ! ” I cried, “ and 
we thought it was dead.” 

“ You thought so,” he corrected. “ I 
lowed ez dere wuz life in dat ole root 
fur years ter cum ! ” 

“ So you did,” I agreed. “ I was the 
unbeliever.” 

“Lor’, Mass’ Charlie,” he went on, 
stooping to scrape the earth from his 
spade, “ you sho’ is lookin’ well.” 

Now, as Charlie was just recovering 
from a severe attack of the grippe, 
this was prophesying smooth things 
indeed. 


[ 174 ] 


CL The Sacrifice of Elijah CL 

My companion laughed and slipped 
his hand into his pocket. “ That ’s 
certainly worth a quarter,” he said, 
handing over the expected response. 

“ Sit here,” I said, motioning him 
towards a bench. “ Were there ever ” 
— gazing dreamily upward — “ skies 
bluer than those we have at South- 
meade ? ” 

“ From pigs to poesy ! ” he mur- 
mured admiringly. “ The versatility 
of the feminine mind is past con- 
ception.” 

“ Do you know,” I went on unheed- 
ing, “that in that crepe-myrtle tree 
yonder a mocking-bird has built her 
nest for three seasons ? See — there 
she goes now with a worm as big as 
a match.” 

“ Nasty things, worms,” said Charlie. 

“ Miss Mary,” broke in Uncle 
Ephr’um, “ I wuz perusin’ ’roun’ in 
de vegitubble gyardeen dis mornin’ an’ 
I cum right up on a passel of dem 
yearlin’ nigger boys from de ‘ Quar- 
[ 175 ] 


Ct Bayou Triste Ct 

ters,’ an’ when I tole ’em ter leave dey 
jes laffed at me mos’ outdacious like ; 
so I ain’ sayin’ nothin’ but I went in- 
side an’ got Mr. Fred’s big pistol ; den 
I cum back an’ s’ I, ‘Now ef you 
don’ git some partiality on yo’selfs an’ 
git out you sho’ll be sorry ; ’ an’, chile, 
you ot ter Ve seen ’em clippin’ ! ” 

“ Have you got any partiality on 
yourself, Mary ? ” asked Charlie. 

“ Uncle Ephr’um’s vocabulary is 
peculiarly his own,” I replied. “ By 
the way, did you know he was in great 
trouble ? His son Shadrack has gone 
to be a soldier.” 

“ Yessir ” (from Uncle Ephr’um), 
“listed ter fight dem no count 
Spaniels.” 

“ Oh, I expect he ’ll come back ! ” 
said Charlie, with as much gravity as 
he could assume. 

“ I hopes so, Mass’ Charlie, I sholy 
hopes so ; kase I ’m gittin’ too ole an’ 
too poly ter tek keer of dat wife an’ 
dem seven chillun of his’n. Yessir, 
[ 176 ] 


C[ The Sacrifice of Elijah Cf 

seven head of chillun an’ de oldes’ ain 
much mo’n a baby.” 

“ Family affection is a beautiful 
thing,” said Charlie. 

“ Uncle Ephr ’urn’s bark is worse 
than his bite,” I responded. 

The next moment, however, I re- 
pented my ill-timed defence, for Uncle 
Ephr’um, noting the lowered tones 
and confidential manner, thought him- 
self in the neighborhood of “an af- 
fair” (not having been told of my 
engagement yet), and with that love 
of a romance which is inborn in 
the Southern negro directed a glance 
of understanding and approval tow- 
ards us. 

“ Mass’ Charlie,” he said, leaning on 
his spade and surveying us with great 
interest, “ ain’ you powerful lonely up 
in dat big house of yourn ? ” 

“ That I am,” replied Charlie, with a 
wicked delight in the situation. 

“Den you ot ter marry,” was the 
reply. “ You ain’ got no bizness ter be 


HBayou TristeH 


wastin’ yo’ time in singularity like 
youse bin doin’ all dese years.” 

“The singularity is,” said Charlie, 
“ that I can’t get anybody to have me, 
that is, anybody I ’d like to have.” 

“Fur de Ian’s sake,” cried Uncle 
Ephr’um, “ how you do run on. You 
knows enny right-thinkin’ gal ud marry 
you, wid dat big house of yourn an’ 
all dat money (for there is a rooted 
impression among the old servants 
which no outward proofs can eradicate 
that we are still wealthy). Looks ain’ 
everything, Mass’ Charlie,” he pursued. 
“ Now I lows ef you wuz ter ask — ” 

“ There ’s a carriage coming in at 
the front gate,” I cried. “ Can you 
make out whose it is ? ” 

Charlie shaded his eyes with his hand. 
“If it’s the Brunes,” I went on, 
“ I ’m not going in. I really could n’t 
stand two hours of mortal dulness.” 

“ Let ’s take to the woods,” cried 
my visitor, who had often fled with me 
to avoid unwelcome callers. 

[ 178 ] 


€L The Sacrifice of Elijah <H 

“ No, no,” I answered, “ it ’s dear old 
Colonel Lossing. You unscrupulous 
boy, you knew it was he. I wouldn’t 
run from him for anything ! ” And I 
started towards the house while he went 
round to the stables for his horse. 

As I reached the steps. Colonel 
Lossing’s high “ jumper ” and absurdly 
small creole mare had just drawn up 
before them. As usual, he was accom- 
panied by a dissipated-looking little 
yellow dog, to whom Flip gave instant 
battle. 

It was amidst a chorus of snarls and 
barks that the Colonel alighted and 
bent over my hand with the courtly 
grace of a forgotten day. 

He was a handsome old man, with 
clear, kindly blue eyes, and a serene 
expression that to those who knew his 
history was incomprehensible. 

His hat was a relic, his clothes 
threadbare, yet it would have taken a 
dull intellect to believe him anything 
but a gentleman. 

[ 179 ] 


<H Bayou Triste€1 

To Joe, who came around the house, 
he confided the dusty “ jumper ” and 
dingy little mare, with instructions for 
their care as minute as those he would 
have given once about the matchless 
thoroughbreds of other days. 

Fred came out to welcome him, and 
he was soon seated in the easiest 
rocker, with a glass of iced lemonade 
and a plate of Priscilla’s best cakes 
at his elbow. 

“ Dear, dear,” he said, looking at me 
with the sweetest, most grateful smile, 
44 you put yourself out entirely too 
much for an old fellow like me. 
You’ll spoil me, Mary. I ’m not used 
to such luxury.” 

Not used ! I wondered if Fred’s 
mind harked back as rapidly as mine 
did to the stories told us by Mammy 
Margaret of the wonderful doings at 
“ Woodleigh,” in the prosperous days 
before the war. 

“ It is a pleasure, Colonel,” I said, so 
earnestly that the commonplace lost 
[ 180 ] 


The Sacrifice of Elijah Cf 

its insincerity, “and you give us the 
opportunity too rarely.” 

“ Well, my child,” he replied, “ I ’m 
right busy nowadays, and it’s only 
now and then I can get off. How 
like your mother you are, Mary, the 
same brow and eyes ! ” and he fell 
into a revery, from which Fred and I 
did not attempt to arouse him. 

We too were lost in thought of 
the brave, generous, old man, whose 
misfortunes, brought about by the 
treachery of trusted friends, had never 
embittered him ; who had seen home 
and fortune go, — the great plantation, 
the savings of a lifetime, everything 
save a tiny cabin that had once been 
his gift to a slave ; who now, in 
his old age, kept the books of a coun- 
try store rather than be (as he ex- 
pressed it) a burden to his friends; 
who never murmured against fortune 
nor railed against fate ; and who by 
his cheerfulness and patience was an 
example to all who knew him. 

[ 181 ] 


f Bayou TristeCL 

Through every reverse he had kept 
his buoyant spirit and unshaken confi- 
dence in the goodness of human nature, 
though how he had managed to do so 
was quite past my comprehension ; but 
that he had done so was doubtless the 
secret of his own happiness and the 
love of his friends. 

“ Forgive me, Mary,” he said sud- 
denly, “ but you are yourself, respon- 
sible for my absent-mindedness. You 
should not suggest ‘ the days that are 
no more.’ ” 

Then he fell to chatting with my 
brother, while I sat by a delighted list- 
ener. His familiarity with all that was 
going on in the world outside was won- 
derful, and it was evident that his inter- 
est in life was as keen as it had always 
been. 

I listened in admiration and amaze- 
ment. Accustomed as I had been to 
the hurrying existence of a town, where 
people grow old young, and where a 
too great variety of interests weakens 
[ 182 ] 


The Sacrifice of Elijah €L 

the vitality and dulls the capacity for 
enjoyment, the enthusiasm of this old 
man, who had drunk deep of the cup 
of experience, was a revelation. 

His keen pity and love for his kind 
touched me as nothing has ever touched 
me before or since. I had been reared 
in a different school, a school where 
life made people cynical instead of 
compassionate, and where the gracious 
doctrine of turning the other cheek was 
never practised and almost unknown. 

“ You say you have him with you ? ” 
asked Fred’s surprised voice, recalling 
my wandering thoughts. 

“Yes, my boy, he was so utterly 
out at elbows ; so at the end of his 
tether, one might say, and without a 
friend in the world to turn to, that I 
really did n’t see how I could do any- 
thing else.” 

“No ? Well, I think others might. 
George Dabney was your evil genius, 
Colonel.” 

“ Who knows, Fred, he might have 
[ 183 ] 


€f B a y o u TristeH 


been led astray ? It ’s very difficult to 
judge of people unless we know the 
motives that prompt their actions. I 
don’t deny that he disappointed me ; 
but his worst enemy would pity him 
now, and God knows I am not that ! ” 

“ I suppose he ’s been drinking ? ” 
went on the clear, merciless young 
voice. 

“ He says he ’s just up from an at- 
tack of malaria,” answered the Colonel. 

“ And you actually have him living 
with you — under your roof — eat- 
ing at your table ! I don’t see how he 
can look you in the face, much less 
accept your charity.” 

The Colonel was silent ; Fred’s indig- 
nation on his behalf pained rather than 
pleased him. Then he said in a tone of 
apology : 

“ He ’s very old, my boy.” 

“ Years younger than you are, 
Colonel.” 

“ And a nervous wreck besides. 
Now I don’t feel a day older than I 
[ 184 ] 


C[ The Sacrifice of Elijah 

did ten years ago. I sleep like a 
child, and my appetite ” — smiling 
towards the empty cake plate — “I 
need not tell you how good it is ! ” 

Fred fidgeted in his chair; the Col- 
onel’s excessive charity fretted him. 
After a moment he got up and went 
inside. 

The old man chatted on, about his 
dog and his little mare “ Ginger,” and 
his garden filled with roses from cut- 
tings I had given him ; and I told him 
about the books I had been reading, 
and the exceeding stupidity of my 
young turkeys, and last but by no 
means least — about Elijah. 

His respectful interest was inspir- 
ing ; I contrasted it resentfully with 
Charlie’s mocking attitude. 

The Colonel felt sure that Elijah 
would bring a good price. “ And may 
I make bold to ask what you mean to 
do with the money ? ” he ventured. 

I looked over my shoulder. Fred 
was nowhere to be seen. 

[ 185 ] 


C Bayou Triste<I 

“ It is a great secret,” I said, in a 
half whisper ; “ but Fred (you know 
how fond he is of birds) has been per- 
fectly wild for a set of Audubon’s for 
a long time, and I want to make the 
money myself and get them for him.” 

The Colonel’s face fell. 

“ They are very costly, Mary.” 

“ I know ; but 1 thought I might 
get a broken set, or some that were 
not in perfect condition.” 

His eyes lit up. 

“My dear child, I have it — the 
very thing. George Dabney was tell- 
ing me, just the other day, that he 
had a broken set of Audubon’s packed 
away somewhere, and he asked me if I 
thought I could dispose of them.” 

“ Why, Colonel ! ” I exclaimed, 
“that seems almost too good to be 
true. Would it bother you very much 
to make all the arrangements for me ? 
Then later on in the fall, when I have 
sold Elijah, I will send you the money 
and you can return the books.” 

[ 186 ] 


The Sacrifice of Elijah <H 

“ I ’ll see to it,” he cried ; “ it ’s 
the very thing ! ” 

“ Of course,” I ventured, “ if he 
should have a better offer in the 
meantime — ” 

“Not likely,” he laughed. “After 
the poor cane crop last year there’s 
not much ready money lying round.” 

“ And not everybody has an Elijah,” 
I cried gaily. 

Then Fred returned to say that 
dinner was ready, and the subject was 
dropped ; but the Colonel did not for- 
get it and told me the next time he 
called that Dabney had said I might 
have the books for twenty dollars, 
owing to their incomplete condition. 

“ Is n’t that very cheap ? ” I re- 
marked doubtfully. 

“ Of course it is ; but they are 
slightly damaged, and Dabney would n’t 
take advantage of you ; he’s a good 
fellow in spite of his faults. People 
say he ruined me, and perhaps he did, 
but we all make mistakes, and he ’s 
[ 187 ] 


Bayou Triste C[ 


as sorry as any one can be for my 
misfortunes. It would do you good 
to hear him talk, Mary, it really 
would.” 

But sad to relate, in spite of the 
Colonel’s enthusiasm, my heart did 
not warm towards the mistaken but 
repentent Mr. Dabney, Fred’s con- 
temptuous expressions concerning him 
having more weight with me than all 
the Colonel’s eulogies. Which proves 
that I was quite human in my prone- 
ness to believe the worst rather than 
the best of people. 

The summer drifted by, a glorious, 
fragrant summer, filled to the brim 
with pleasant happenings. 

Elijah, as I had predicted, waxed 
vigorous and corpulent. I regret to 
say, however, that he was not popular 
with the kitchen authorities, for Uncle 
Ephr’um looked with an envious eye 
upon the buckets of buttermilk carried 
to his pen daily ; while Priscilla’s in- 
[ 188 ] 


€t The Sacrifice of Elijah H 

dignation over the wasteful amount of 
sweet potatoes consumed by him found 
vent in low murmurs that I thought 
it expedient to ignore. 

Charlie mocked and Fred laughed 
at what they were pleased to call my 
“ business venture,” but I kept my 
own counsel and asked no sympathy 
from either of them. 

One day, towards the end of October, 
the Colonel arrived to say that he was 
much grieved to tell me that his friend 
Dabney had been sent for suddenly 
and needed some ready money at once. 
He would be obliged to sell the Au- 
dubons to some one, but of course 
desired to give me the preference. 

I was plunged into despair. 

“ Could he wait until to-morrow ? ” 
I asked. 

“ Certainly,” said the Colonel. 
“ Mary, my dear child, I wish I had 
the money to advance for you ! ” 

“ I know you do,” I answered, “ but 
wait until to-morrow, and I will send 
[ 189 ] 


C^Bayou TmsTECf 

it by Uncle Ephr’um and he can bring 
me back the books.” 

The Colonel having taken his de- 
parture, I went in search of Fred, de- 
siring him to arrange with the butcher 
all the preliminaries for the sacrifice of 
Elijah. 

Priscilla told me, with what I im- 
agined a grin of triumph, that Fred 
had gone to “ Vieuxtemps ” and would 
not be back until night. 

“ Sumpin de matter wid de mill,” 
she explained. 

My heart sank ; any trouble with 
the machinery during the sugar-mak- 
ing season meant complete absorp- 
tion of Fred ; I could look for no help 
from that quarter. 

Charlie I refused to consider. 

Priscilla told me she was “ plum 
crazy wid de mizry in de back, an had 
a sassiety meetin’ besides.” 

Uncle Ephr’um, while not actually 
refusing to go for the butcher, made 
so many objections to doing so that I 
[ 190 ] 


Cf The Sacrifice of Elijah €L 

flung away in a temper. “ I know 
what it is,” I cried scornfully ; “ you 
don’t want me to sell Elijah. You’d 
like to eat him yourselves, you and 
Priscilla. Oh, you think I don’t see 
through you, but I do ! And mark 
my words,” darkly, “if I do have to 
keep him, neither you nor Priscilla nor 
Joe shall ever taste a bite of him.” 

“ What I bin doin’, Miss Mary ? ” 
asked Joe’s hurt voice at my elbow. 

“ Find the butcher for me,” I said, 
“ and you won’t be sorry, Joe,” and 
I moved hurriedly out of Uncle 
Ephr’um’s demoralizing neighborhood. 

My eloquence, not to say my brib- 
ery, resulted in the appearance of the 
butcher an' hour or so later. 

He was not at all what I had antici- 
pated, and I was greatly disconcerted 
by his prosperous appearance. I felt 
that it would be quite impossible to 
argue over the price of a pig with such 
a well-dressed individual. 

However, it was too late now to re- 
[ 191 ] 


Bayou Triste H. 

treat, so accompanied by Uncle Ephr’um 
(murmuring under his breath “ dat hit 
warnt fitten bizness fur a lady nohow ”) 
I escorted Elijah’s future owner to the 
pen. 

My conscience reproached me when 
two greedy little eyes twinkled up at 
me, for I came no longer as a generous 
provider with an eye to future benefit, 
but as a ruthless executioner thirsting 
for his life’s blood. 

To my dismay, Theophile Dumon 
did not seem impressed by Elijah’s 
corpulency. He spoke lightly of it 
and poked him in the sides with a de- 
preciatory finger. 

He was polite but amused when I 
mentioned fifteen dollars as the price 
I expected to receive, and he men- 
tioned incidentally that Mr. Harrell 
on the place below had much finer 
pigs than Elijah, and made a mo- 
tion as if to remount his big black 
horse. 

My spirits fell, for the Audubon 
[ 192 ] 


Cf The Sacrifice of Elijah €£ 

books seemed to be slipping away 
from me. 

Then Dumon spoke, as one who 
makes a great concession and is con- 
scious of his generosity. 

“ I tell you what I ’ll do,” he said. 
“ Mr. Fred, he ’s a good fren’ of mine ; 
I ’ll give you ten dollars down for the 
hog. I don’ reckon I ’ll make anything 
on him, but no matter.” 

I longed to tell him that I had never 
heard of him as a philanthropist, but 
dignity forebade this pleasure, so mas- 
tering my indignation and with as 
great an air of condescension as I 
could assume I signified my willing- 
ness to accept the offer. 

Then I marched away, leaving the 
rebellious Uncle Ephr’um to conclude 
the ceremonies incidental to Elijah’s 
departure, and to receive his blood 
money. 

Dumon dost no time in carrying off 
his prize, and when Fred returned 
(several hours sooner than he was ex- 
13 [ 193 ] 


^ Bayou TristeCI 


pected) I gave him a graphic account 
of the whole transaction. When I 
mentioned Elijah’s price he opened his 
eyes. 

44 Why, he cheated you out of sight, 
Mary,” he said. 44 Elijah ’s worth fifteen 
dollars if he ’s worth ten cents ! ” 

46 Oh, I know that,” I said meekly, 
44 but I don’t know a thing about 
bargaining. Uncle Ephr’um said 4 hit 
warnt fitten bizness fur a lady,’ and 
I think he was about right.” 

44 Why did n’t you wait until I got 
back ? ” 

44 1 had to have the money at once.” 
“Why?” 

44 That ’s a secret.” 

44 Well, I sincerely hope your next 
venture will turn out better than this 
one.” 

His words sent a cold shiver of ap- 
prehension through me ; but the next 
morning when Uncle Ephr’um set off 
in the little spring cart, with the ten 
dollars (added to ten I had already) 
[ 194 ] 


The Sacrifice of Elijah <1 

pinned securely in his vest pocket, my 
spirits again rose. 

He returned late that night, in a 
pouring rain and a very bad temper. 
When in response to a summons I went 
out into the back hall I found him 
standing by a rusty box with the water 
dripping from his clothes. 

“ Go into the kitchen and get dry 
at once,” I cried at sight of him. 
“You’ll take your death of cold.” 

“ I reckon I done done dat,” was the 
grim reply. “ May I never see sich 
roads ez you sont me fru dis day, Miss 
Mary. Ise tankful ter git back alive ; 
an’ ez fur ole Suley, she sho is bad 
off.” 

“ Tell Joe to rub her down,” I said, 
refusing to be depressed by these 
calamities, for I knew Uncle Ephr’um 
of old. 

“De Kunnel he sont you dis,” he 
went on, taking a letter from the lining 
of his hat. “ De oder gemman he lef on 
de boat jes arfter I ’rived.” 

[ 195 ] 


HBayou Triste€1 


I opened the Colonel’s note and read 
by the hall light : 

My dear Mary : 

It has occurred to me that my friend Dab- 
ney (in his careless way) may have exaggerated 
the value of his Audubon books ; in other 
words, may have thought them in better con- 
dition than they are. They have been packed 
for some time and may have met with some 
mishap. 

I suggested to him that we open the box 
and examine them prior to sending them to 
you, but he seemed to imagine that I doubted 
his good faith and grew so nervous over the 
subject that I did not pursue it. 

But I desire to say that should the books 
prove on examination to be greatly defaced or 
otherwise injured that I hold myself respon- 
sible for your loss and will see that your 
money is refunded. 

My friend Dabney is in great trouble at 
present, a near relative being at death’s door, 
and he has just left to go to him, but I feel 
sure he would ratify what I say if he were 
here. 

Remember to let me know the condition of 
your purchase. 


[ 196 ]• 


€L The Sacrifice of Elijah <1 


With expressions of high regard for your- 
self and your brother, believe me 

Your obedient servant and friend, 

Beverly Lossing. 

October 28 , 1898 . 


I looked up. 

Fred was standing by me staring 
from the dripping Uncle Ephr’um to 
the box at my feet. 44 What ’s all 
this ? ” he asked. 

44 Open it,” I said faintly (for Joe 
had brought in the hatchet). 

Fred knelt down and began to pry 
off the box top. A cloud of dust flew 
into our faces as we bent over it 
together. 

44 It ’s a present for you ! ” I explained 
haltingly. 44 Audubon books! You 
said you wanted them. Colonel Loss- 
ing’s friend, Mr. Dabney, sold them to 
me.” 

Fred paused in his work. 

44 Then they ’re no good,” he said. 

44 O, Fred ! ” I cried ; then a moment 
later, after mastering my tears, I said : 

[ 197 ] 


H Bayou Triste®, 


‘‘The Colonel seemed to fear that 
too,” and I gave my brother the note. 

“ Do you read between the lines ? ” 
he asked. 

“No.” 

“ He tried to prevent the sale and 
that cheat Dabney would n’t let go.” 

“ But why did he ever let him have 
the money ? ” 

Uncle Ephr’um here put in a word. 

“De oder gemman met me at de 
gate,” he said. “ He say de Kunnel 
wuz seeck in bade an’ I wuz ter let him 
have de money, kase he ’s bleeged to 
leave straight off on de leetle boat.” 

“ And you gave it to him ? ” 

Uncle Ephr’um scratched his head. 

“ He talked reel convincin’-like, 
Mass’ Fred, an’ he say he ma’s dyin’.” 

Fred laughed in spite of his disgust. 

“ His poor old mother ’s been dead 
these thirty years,” he said. “Now 
clear out, both of you.” 

Having dismissed the two curious 
onlookers, Fred proceeded to open the 
[ 198 ] 


The Sacrifice of Elijah €[ 

box, while I sat in a dejected heap 
on the floor beside him. When the 
cover was finally removed (for the 
nails were driven deep) our worst fears 
were realized. 

I could not well have been more 
deceived. Audubon books they un- 
doubtedly had been, but in what pre- 
historic age it would have been 
difficult to say. The covers were in 
fairly good condition, but when we 
opened them heaps of dust and tiny 
scraps of paper were all we found 
inside. 

Here and there the bill of a bird, 
the webbed foot of a duck, the out- 
line of a tiny wing, indicated that 
Audubon’s marvels had fallen victims 
to that terror to all Louisiana libraries 
— the silver moth. 

When the last book had been lifted 
out and we could neither hope nor 
suffer more, I am not ashamed to con- 
fess that I broke down and sobbed un- 
restrainedly. 


[ 199 ] 


H Bayou TristeCI 


Fred drew his arm about my shaking 
shoulders. 

“ Don’t take it so hard,” he said. 
“ I ’m just as much obliged to you, and 
who could have anticipated this ? ” 

“ I don’t see how he could do it,” I 
moaned. “ He must have known, and I 
had looked forward so to your delight.” 

“ He ought to be horse-whipped ! ” 
he cried. 

“ The poor old Colonel,” I said, “ it 
will grieve him awfully to learn this. 
Y et how am I to keep it from him ? 
And Charlie,” piling on the agony, 
“ he ’ll never stop laughing.” 

“ He won’t laugh at all ; he ’ll be as 
angry as I am.” 

I looked at the empty box, the 
heap of dingy covers, the piles of dust 
and scattered bits of paper ; and the 
iron entered into my soul. 

“ And it was for this,” 1 said bitterly, 
“ for this ” — with a tragic wave of the 
hand — “ that I sacrificed Elijah ! ” 


[ 200 ] 


XIII 


SIX MONTHS OF MARRIAGE 

T HE hen-house door was wide 
open, and Priscilla and Joe 
had for the last half-hour been 
fruitlessly endeavoring to persuade the 
old gray turkey-hen to enter it. 

Her mincing step and reflective 
manner, as she would hesitate at the 
door and then pass by, were irre- 
sistibly amusing to an onlooker, and 
correspondingly aggravating to her 
would-be captors. 

From the safe vantage ground of 
the back steps I watched proceedings, 
occasionally throwing in words of ad- 
vice to further irritate the situation. 

“ Head her off, Joe ! ” I called excit- 
edly. “ Priscilla, you come round on 
the other side. Good gracious ! how 
on earth could you let her pass ? ” 

[ 201 ] 


CLBayou TristeCI 


Priscilla turned and looked at me. 

44 Miss Mary,” she said with infinite 
feeling, 44 s’posen you tries to tote her 
in yourself. Ise dead beat by now, 
an’ I lows ef you knows how ter ketch 
her, you ought ter come an’ take a 
han\” 

The gage was thrown down and I 
was racking my brains how to escape 
with honor, when Charlotte Wilson, 
who was Charlotte Deals, came around 
the corner of the house. 

Her appearance was a signal of 
deliverance. 

4 4 Priscilla,” said I, rising and motion- 
ing Charlotte to follow, 44 1 know Char- 
lotte has only a few minutes to spare, 
so I ’ll have to leave you and Joe to 
fight it out with old Aunt Sukey,” for 
such was the turkey-hen’s name, due 
to her ludicrous resemblance to one of 
our old servants. 

Charlotte grinned. She had heard 
Priscilla’s challenge and appreciated 
the humor of the situation. 

[ 202 ] 


€L Six Months of Marriage Cf 

“ I kin drop in anoder time, Miss 
Mary,” she said in a low tone. 

“ Come into the garden,” I replied, 
ignoring the suggestion, “ I ’m tired of 
the steps anyhow.” 

It was a perfect October day. The 
sky was a deep blue, the grass fresh 
and green, and the branches vivid, 
despite the approach of winter. 

As I flung myself on my favorite 
bench, the delicious fragrance of vio- 
lets and sweet olive was overpowering. 

Even Charlotte, who was not poet- 
ically inclined, felt the charm, for she 
remarked as she seated herself (at my 
request) on a fallen log, “ Yo’ roses sho 
do fumigate de gardeen, Miss Mary.” 

“Yes,” said I dreamily, “and now, 
Charlotte, tell me how you like being 
married ? ” 

Charlotte twisted her bonnet string 
round her finger. 

“ Wese bin married six months, Miss 
Mary,” she said, “ an’ he ain’ never beat 
me yit.” 


[ 203 ] 


Cf Bayou Triste 


An indignant “ I should think not ” 
was on my lips, but a swift recollection 
of circumstances checked me. 

What volumes did not that pathetic 
speech reveal ! How meagre must her 
ideas of married happiness be, that she 
could find contentment in so little ! I 
thought of her father, old Peter Deals, 
sullen, morose, and irritable, and real- 
ized that from him she doubtless drew 
her estimate of conjugal conduct. 

“ Then he is good to you ? ” I said 
tentatively. 

“ Yessum ; he ain’ sose ter say very 
free wid his money, but I teks in a 
leetle washin’ every week, an’ so we 
gits erlong.” 

“ I saw your house,” I said, “ Mr. 
Fred and I passed it last week.” For 
Lincoln, scorning a plantation cabin, 
had rented a tiny cottage on the out- 
skirts of the village. 

“Did you, Miss Mary? Hit’s reel 
smart-lookin’, ain’ hit ? ” 

I did not smile, but “ smart-lookin’ ” 
[ 204 ] 


€1 Six Months of Marriage «H 

was certainly exaggerated praise of the 
little low-roomed building Fred had 
pointed out to me as Charlotte’s 
dwelling. 

“ The vine on your gallery is lovely,” I 
said. “ You must give me a root of it.” 

“ Lor’, Miss Mary, do you really 
want hit ? Why, I ’ll fotch you over 
some to-morrow.” 

“ What furniture have you ? ” I went 
on, for I saw she was pining to be “ led 
out.” 

“ Not so much, Miss Mary. My 
pa guv me a bed an’ a bureau fur a 
weddin’ presen’, but I lef ’em at he 
house.” 

“ Left them ? ” I repeated. “ What 
a curious idea.” 

Charlotte shook her head. 

“ No’m; dey ’s mine, you see, en ef 
Lincoln an’ me ever falls out, I ’ll hev 
’em all right at my pa’s ; but ef I 
fotches ’em over ter us house Lincoln 
cud say dey wuz his’n an’ tek ’em fur 
heself.” 


[ 205 ] 


HBayou Triste€[ 


The confident anticipation of trouble 
and subsequent deep laid schemes in 
regard to the bed and bureau made 
me open my eyes. 

44 But, Charlotte,” I protested, 44 you 
ought n’t to feel like that ; when peo- 
ple are married they must trust each 
other.” 

Charlotte smiled. 

44 Dat ’s white folks’ ways, Miss Mary, 
but niggers is diffrunt. You kawnt 
count on a nigger ; youse bleeged ter 
be rady fur him. I knows Ise slow 
an’ ugly, an’ Lincoln ’s one of dese 
hyar high-steppin’ niggers what ain’ 
get no better sense den ter think deys 
ez good ez ennybody, so he might git 
tired of me. Den he ’d ’gin ter treat 
me bad sose ter mek me quit him.” 

44 1 hope that will never happen,” I 
said. 

“Well, Miss Mary, I don’ reckon 
hit will,” she responded cheerfully. 44 1 
cooks an’ I washes an’ I darns fur him ; 
I keeps him cumfurtubble, an’ I ain’ 
[ 206 ] 


<1 Six Months of Marriage 

never sputing what he ’s got ter say 
(kase I kin hev my own idees jes de 
same), an’ I lows we ’ll git erlong ez 
well ez mos’ folks.” 

“ Are you sorry you married ? ” I 
asked gently. 

“Sorry? Why no, ma’am. You 
knows how hit is, Miss Mary ; marryin’ 
is jes like everything else. You kawnt 
tell how hit ’s gwine ter tun out. Y ouse 
bleeged ter tek yo’ chances. An’ 
talkin’ ’bout dat, I heerd tell you wuz 
gwine ter be married fo’ long.” 

Somehow or other I did not think 
the moment a happy one to discuss 
my own matrimonial arrangements. 

“You can’t believe all you hear, 
Charlotte,” I replied vaguely. 

“No ’m, but ef hit’s true, an’ I reckon 
hit is, I hopes he ’s got plenty of money 
an’ you ’ll be happy ever arfter.” 

“ I hope so,” I replied with sudden 
gloom. 

Charlotte arose. 

“ Well, Ise got ter be gwine, Miss 
[ 207 ] 


€L Bayou Triste<H 


Mary. Don furgit me ef you happens 
ter fine enny ole dress or hat what 
won’t do you no mo’ good.” 

“ I won’t,” said I. “ By the way, 
there ’s a pan of milk in the dairy you 
can take home with you ; ask Priscilla 
for it as you go by.” 

So Charlotte went away and left me 
to my reflections, — reflections not al- 
together as cheerful as they might have 
been. 

A short while later, when Joe came 
into the garden with the water can, he 
handed me a letter. 

“ Mass’ Fred guv hit ter me ; he say 
hit cum by de late mail.” 

At sight of the well-known hand- 
writing my spirits rose. 

As I broke the seal I happened to 
look across the yard and saw Lincoln’s 
wife, a little, thin, weather-beaten fig- 
ure, plodding slowly homewards. 

“ Poor little Charlotte,” I said com- 
passionately. 


[ 208 ] 


XIV 


GOOD-BYE 

I T was the tenth of November, a 
glorious afternoon with a clear 
brightness to the sun, a crispness 
to the atmosphere that set the blood 
tingling in the veins. I paused on 
my way to the garden to sit upon the 
steps in happy, untroubled idleness. 
To-morrow was my wedding day ! 

A little while and the old life would 
be gone like a dream. I looked out 
at the shadow-haunted yard with a 
sudden realization of loss. The sight 
of Joe and Priscilla’s Benjie quarrel- 
ling beneath the pecan trees, and of 
Priscilla crossing the grass with her 
skirts caught high about her hips, 
sights quite unemotional in themselves, 
brought the tears to my eyes and 
something like a sob to my throat. 

14 [ 209 ] 


# 


HBayou TristeCL 


Yesterday afternoon, when Kate and 
Agnes were sleeping, I had stolen 
down to our family graveyard to say 
a good-bye prayer at my mother’s 
grave, and to-day, with the strange 
new feeling of responsibility and lone- 
liness upon me, I missed her as I had 
never missed her before. 

Kate came laughing down the 
gallery. 

“ Something old, and something new. 

Something borrowed, and something blue,” 

she quoted. “ Oh, child ! I would n’t 
be in your shoes for gold.” 

“Fine words,” I answered, “with 
your own wedding only half a month 
away.” 

“ There ’s yet time,” teased Mrs. 
Ewing, slipping to a seat beside me. 
“ Why don’t you back out before it ’s 
too late ? ” 

“ I don’t want to back out,” I 
declared. 

“ Well, after all, I don’t blame you ; 
he ’s really very pleasant, and with the 
[ 210 ] 


Good-Bye €f 

kindest gray eyes. But I think you 
might have married a home man.” 

“ 4 Nobody asked me, sir, she said.’ ” 

4 4 Don’t notice her, Agnes ; she wants 
you to deny it,” cried Kate. 

44 Poor Mr. Donald ! ” was Agnes’ 
reply. 

44 Miss Mary,” said Priscilla’s unc- 
tious voice, 44 leetle yaller Susan and 
Jeems Vincent’s Sophy ’d like ter see 
you.” 

44 Very well!” said I. 44 Good gra- 
cious ! if there ’s one thing on earth I 
dread, it ’s visits from old servants. 
The very sight of them drives every 
idea I have out of my mind ; and when 
I ’ve asked after their children, and 
grandchildren, and cross-questioned 
them about their chickens and gar- 
dens, I ’ve reached the end of my 
tether. Fortunately somebody dies 
now and then and gives us something 
to talk about.” 

44 O Mary, how can you ? ” cried 
Agnes. 

[211 ] 


H Bayou TristeH 


“Try it for yourself,” I retorted; 
“see how your better nature shrivels 
up. Come, Kate, help me out like a 
good girl.” 

“Not I,” said Kate. 

“ Well, you, Agnes ?” 

“They don’t want to see me,” she 
protested. “ You ’re the attraction ; 
you — and your marriage — these are 
wedding visits and you must accept 
them in proper form.” 

“ There ’s one comfort,” I said, as I 
was gloomily departing, “ Kate will 
have all this to do after I ’m gone.” 

“ Don’t remind me,” she called, “ or 
I might break off my engagement.” 

Yellow Susan was a small, bright- 
eyed little woman who had been my 
mother’s maid, and her proprietary 
interest in me and my affairs was 
of long standing. Between her and 
Mammy existed a deadly feud, the 
latter considering her affection for me 
highly impertinent, and an infringe- 
ment of her own rights. 

[ 212 ] 


CL Good-Bye <1 

Susan questioned me closely about 
Hugh and his family, and, above all, 
his prospects, and was much chagrined 
when I betrayed the most lamentable 
ignorance of his finances. 

“ Do hush, Miss Mary ! ” she cried, 
“ you sholy ain’ marryin’ poor ! I 
heered tell he was rich, an’ I wuz that 
proud.” 

“ Money is n’t everything,” I re- 
sponded. 

Aunt Sophy here put in a word : 

“ No ’m, hit ain’ everything, dat ’s so ; 
but hit ain’ nothing ter lafF at neider.” 

“ How’s Nathan ?” I asked, with a 
view of diverting the conversation. 

“ He ’s right smart, thank you, Miss 
Mary. He ’s got a place on de railroad 
as car porter.” 

If she had said as President of the 
United States, her pride could not 
have been greater ; and after con- 
gratulating her warmly, I proceeded 
with my category. 

“ What ’s big Jacob doing now ? ” 

[ 213 ] 


C Bayou TristeCC 


“Ain doin’ nothin’ ceppen drink 
heself ter death,” was the mournful 
reply. 

“ Oh, Aunt Sophy, I ’m very sorry,” 
I said. 

“No mo’n I is, Honey, seein’ ez I 
hez his nocount wife an’ chillun on my 
han’s.” 

Having no comfort to offer under 
such unfortunate circumstances, I 
adroitly changed the subject. 

“And what have you been doing 
with yourself, Aunt Susan ? ” 

Her companion chuckled. “ What 
you reckon she ’s done done ? ” 

“ I can’t imagine.” 

“ Bin an’ gone an’ got married agin ! ” 

“ And you never sent me word ! ” I 
exclaimed. 

“ I wuz ashamed, Honey. I wuz 
feered you’d laff at me. I knowed 
you an’ Mass’ Fred’d think I wuz too 
ole an’ settled-like fur sech gwineson, 
so I lowed I ’d lay low ontwell I ’d git 
kiner used ter hit.” 

[ 214 ] 


Ct Good-Bye 

“ Whom did you marry ? ” I asked, 
wondering whether the bridegroom 
had been entirely disinterested, or in- 
fluenced somewhat by her savings and 
her comfortable cabin in the village. 

44 Ole Peter Brown.” 

Now Peter was the best fiddler in 
the parish, and a great favorite with 
all of us, so I smiled my approval. 

“You ’ll never want for music, will 
you ? ” I laughed. 

44 Now, Honey,” said Susan reproach- 
fully, 4 4 you disremembers dat sence Ise 
got religion, I don’ hev nothin’ ter do 
wid sech sinful percedins. Why, me 
an’ Peter bunned his fiddle spang up 
in de kitchen hyarth ’fore I ’d ’gree to 
marry him.” 

44 Burned his violin ! Oh, how could 
you ? ” 

44 Hit wuz Satan’s tool, chile, de call 
of de ungodly ter pore weak sinners.” 

44 Well, I ’m afraid I ’m one of them,” 
I said, 44 for I dearly loved his music. 
Now I know you have something else 
[ 215 ] 


(HBayou TristeH 


to do, so I won’t keep you.” (This 
was my favorite formula when my 
guests showed no symptoms of de- 
parture.) “ But come into the pantry 
first and drink my health in black- 
berry cordial.” 

“ Here ’s to you an’ todes you, 

Ef I ’d never seed you I ’d never knowed you ! ” 

said Susan, wiping out her glass with 
her apron. 

<( Red fur de blackbird, blue fur de wren, 

Jye ter de pretty gals an’ nothin’ fur de men,” 

chanted Aunt Sophy, not to be out- 
done. “Tell Mass’ Fred howdy fur 
us, Miss Mary, an’ don’ furgit ter save 
us some of de good things termorrer.” 

“ Oh, you must come to my wed- 
ding,” I cried, “ I shall expect you. 
Well, that ’s over,” darting into Kate’s 
room and flinging myself on the bed. 
“ They ’re so good-hearted, and so 
affectionate, and so — unspeakably 
dull.” 


[ 216 ] 


Good-Bye H 

Kate was making an evergreen gar- 
land, a thing of beauty that grew like 
magic under her deft fingers. 

“ This is to go in the hall,” she said, 
ignoring me and my woes, “ and Agnes 
has made a lovely one for the folding- 
doors. Joe and Uncle Ephr’um are 
hard at work on the mantel-pieces, and 
Mammy’s generally ordering things 
round. I thought you ’d like to know 
how we were progressing.” 

“ I want to be married in the 
front drawing-room on the very spot 
where my mother stood before me,” 
I said. 

“ Very well, come and show me the 
place.” 

The windows were wide open, 
November though it was, and through 
the filmy curtains the late sun poured 
like a golden flood, making one forget 
the faded furniture and worn carpets. 
Mammy was dusting the portraits with 
reverent hands, and Priscilla, on her 
knees before the hearth, was dispensing 
[ 217 ] 


CtBAYOU TristeC^ 


wisdom to Joe and Uncle Ephr’um, 
who received it scornfully. 

Agnes, having hung her garland, was 
studying the effect from a distant 
chair. I went over to her with shin- 
ing eyes. 

“ What should I have done without 
you two,” I asked, “ and how can I ever 
repay you ? ” 

“ By looking your prettiest to-mor- 
row and making Mr. Delancey think 
well of all Southern women.” 

“ Keep that uplifted look you have 
now,” said Kate, “ that expression of 
etherealized happiness I We don’t see 
it very often nowadays.” 

“ Miss Mary,” warned Mammy from 
the window, “ I see Mis’ Brune’s car- 
riage at de gate.” 

“ Oh, come ! ” I cried wildly. 
“ Agnes ! Kate ! — both of you. 
Mammy,” over my shoulder, “ say 
we’ve gone to the sugar-house — the 
fields — anywhere. Tell them how 
sorry we are — ” 

[ 218 ] 


«H Good-Bye Ct 


I was already half-way down the 
back steps, having snatched a sunbon- 
net as I tore through the hall. 

“ Lovely conduct for a bride-to-be,” 
gasped Kate at my side. 

“You don’t know the Brunes,” I 
answered. “ Oh, there ’s the very 
thing,” catching sight of old Suley in 
Uncle Ephr’um’s little bob-tailed cart. 
“ Jump in, Agnes ; sit down, Kate. 
Get up, Suley, get up ! ” — and away 
we rattled, down the big road, across 
the fields to the “ Quarters.” 

When danger lay far behind us I 
allowed Suley to fall into a walk, and 
turned around with a triumphant smile. 

“ Presence of mind is an excellent 
thing,” I observed conceitedly. 

“It would serve you right if Mr. 
Delancey came while you were gone,” 
said Agnes. 

“ He ’s not coming till ‘ tea,’ I 
said. “ I told him not to come ; that 
we had to get the house ready.” 

“ This looks like it,” sarcastically. 
[ 219 ] 


C[Bayou Triste<H 


“ All is fair in love and the Brunes,” 
I quoted. “ How delicious ! ” as the 
wind brought us the odor of fried bacon 
from the “ Quarters’ ” kitchens. “ I ’ve 
half a mind to stop and get supper at 
Modeste’s.” 

“ She is quite mad,” observed Agnes. 
“ Better humor her, Kate.” 

The “ Quarters ” wore its accustomed 
look of languid activity ; negro chil- 
dren played at the road’s edge, dogs 
darted wildly about, getting in every- 
body’s way ; here a goat tied with a 
long string browsed on the ditch 
bank; there a big-eyed calf stared at 
us through the fence rails. From 
every chimney floated a wavering line 
of gray smoke ; supper was in course 
of preparation. 

As we neared the sugar-house, the 
centre of interest just now, a tardy 
recollection of the overseers and of 
Fred decided me to abandon the cart ; 
but before I could do so he appeared 
round the corner of the blacksmith’s 
[ 220 ] 


Good-Bye Cf 

shop, accompanied, to my great dis- 
may, by Hugh. 

Agnes and Kate greeted them cor- 
dially, but I scrambled from my perch 
with scarcely a word of welcome, for 
when one has posed as exceedingly 
dignified it is awkward to be found 
out. 

“ Why did you get down ? ” asked 
Hugh, as we were strolling to the cane 
shed. “You looked awfully jolly up 
there.” 

“ Jolly ! ” I repeated disgustedly. 
“ By the way, I thought you were safe 
in Vieuxtemps. How came you to be 
out here ? ” 

“Why, Fred asked me to come 
over, and as I ’d never seen ‘ grinding,’ 
I was glad to accept. It ’s very inter- 
esting all through.” 

“ I suppose it is,” I answered, “but 
I never understand the machinery, and 
it does worry Fred so.” 

We had reached the great shed, 
with its heaps of cane and laugh- 
[ 221 ] 


Cl Bayou TristeCH 


ing, good-natured workers. Some of 
them were children, but they threw 
their cane on the carrier with as much 
vim and energy as their elders. 

The foreman of the gang, and an 
old acquaintance of mine, caught sight 
of us and came hurrying over to speak 
to me. 

“ Wese mity sorry ter lose you, 
Miss Mary,” he said, “ but hit’s a jye 
ter know youse gwine ter be tooken 
good keer of.” 

I looked at Hugh, and as his eyes 
ntet mine, the steady gray eyes I loved, 
it needed no verbal assurance to know 
that old Roger’s confidence was war- 
ranted. 

“ Give us a song, boys,” called Fred. 
“ Something bright and lively sound- 
ing, like a hornpipe. Lead them off, 
Roger.” 

And the next moment the rafters 
echoed to the rhythmical nonsense of 

“ Hop light, ladies, de cake ’s all do 1 , 

Never mine de wedder ef de win 1 don 1 blow ! 11 

[ 222 ] 


Good-Bye 

“ Mary,” said Hugh, as we were 
strolling slowly homewards, “this is 
such a pleasant, care-free existence 
that I ’m afraid some day you may 
regret it. My heart sinks at the 
thought and I wonder at my own 
selfishness 1 ” 

“ Care-free ? ” I echoed indignantly ; 
“with crevasses and tariffs and boun- 
ties. Who ever heard of such a 
thing ? ” 

“ But you love it so,” he insisted 
jealously ; “it amounts to a passion 
with you.” 

“Yes, I do love it, everything about 
it ; and with all its anxieties there ’s no 
life like it in the world,” and my glance 
wandered wistfully around. “ Dear, 
lovely, unprofitable old place, I think 
I was born loving it, and I have been 
so happy here.” 

“ And to-morrow you say good-bye 
to it forever.” 

“ Forever ! ” I echoed dreamily. 
Then, struck by his silence, I turned 

[ 223 ] 


<H Bayou TeisteH 


to look at him curiously. 44 You don’t 
mind my liking it? You wouldn’t 
have it otherwise, would you ? ” 

44 No, no, it ’s very natural ; but tell 
me you are willing to come, — that 
you will be content. You are every- 
thing in the world to me, and it would 
make me wretched if you were not 
happy.” 

I smiled into his anxious face. 

44 There are compensations,” I said. 
44 Oh, you foolish Hugh,” as he still 
looked unconvinced, 44 have I not told 
you that I love you ? ” 

About an hour later, when I was 
dressing for tea, Priscilla knocked at 
my door, ostensibly to bring me a 
light, but in reality to free her mind of 
a few valedictory thoughts. 

44 Miss Mary, chile,” she said, coming 
over to where I sat by the low fire, 
44 1 sho is sorry ter lose you. Me an’ 
you hez got on fus-rate tergedder.” 

44 1 ’m sorry to go, Priscilla,” I re- 
[ 224 ] 


<HGood-Bye€1 

sponded. 44 Sorry and glad at the same 
time.” 

4 4 Yessum, I knows you is ; sorry 
kase hit ’s tunning yo’ back on de ole 
place, an glad kase hit ’s Mass’ Hugh 
what’s tekin’ you off. Hit’s nateral, 
chile, but Ise downright mad youse 
gwine so far away.” 

44 I shall come back,” I said. 4 4 Mr. 
Hugh has promised to bring me.” 

44 ’T ain’ de same, Miss Mary, ’t ain’ 
de same ; youse done wid all of us, 
alius ! Howsomever, dat ain’ what I 
hed on my mine ter tell you.” 

44 What was it ? ” I queried, think- 
ing she wanted to ask some final 
questions about to-morrow’s arrange- 
ments. 

44 Hit ’s dis, Miss Mary. Me an’ 
Hinery an’ Ephr’um wuz talkin’ ’bout 
you larst night — you an’ Mass’ Hugh ; 
an’ Hinery he up an’ say, sez he, 4 Miss 
Mary ’s gwine up yander wid all dose 
rich folkses, an’ bimeby wese gwine 
ter pass clean out ’n her mine.’” 

15 [ 225 ] 


<D;Bayou Triste€[ 


“And did Uncle Ephr’um agree 
with Henry ? ” 

“ Ephr’um, he say, ‘ Go long, nigger ; 
she ain’ dat kine, you don’ know Miss 
Mary. All de riches on dis green 
yuth ain’ gwine ter mek her furgit ole 
Louisianny ! ” 

“ And how about you ? ” 

“ S’ I, ‘ Ephr’um Gabul, an’ you, 
Hinery Wilson, lissen ter me. Dem 
rich folkses ain’ never gwine onsettle 
Miss Mary, kase she ’s got what ’s 
better ’n money — she ’s got blood, an’ 
she ain’ never gwine back on hit.” 

“ Thank you,” said I, trying valiantly 
to forget certain acts of hers not con- 
sistent with these noble ideas. “ I hope 
I ’ll never disappoint you.” 

“ Dat ’s right, Miss Mary,” she cried, 
“ dat ’s right. Don’ you let ’em skeer 
you ; nemmine ef dey is rich, jes you 
hole up your hade an’ ’member who 
you is, an’ nothin’ ain’ gwine ter flus- 
trate you den.” 

A sentiment so entirely in sympathy 

[ 226 ] 


^ Good-ByeH 


with my own views, that in the after 
years I found it easy to comply with 
the parting advice of my voluble, 
audacious, yet always good-hearted 
follower. 











SECOND THOUSAND 


MAMMY’S 

REMINISCENCES 

By MRS. MARTHA S. GIELOW 

OF ALABAMA 

1 2mo. Illuminated cloth. Illustrated with pictures drawn from 
life by Mrs. Clara Weaver Parrish. 128 pages. Price, $1.00. 


“ A delightful series of planta- 
tion sketches.’ ’ 

The Outlook. 

“ Never have the old Southern 
‘Daddy ’ and ‘ Mammy ’ 
been more deliciously por- 
trayed than they are in 
Mrs. Gielow’s pages.” 

Boston Journal. 

“ Nor can one read this book 
without gaining a clearer 
insight into the quaint 
humor of the negro’s 
happy simple nature.” 

St. Paul Globe . 

“It is well that some one 
who knew this faithful 

* Mammy ’ should perpet- 
uate her. While we grieve 
that she is gone, let us 
give thanks that in these 

* Reminiscences ’ we may 
live over again the days of 
our youth.” 

Nashville American. 


^JpHIS book is a collec- 
tion of folk-lore and 
character sketches that 
give correct and natural 
pictures of the old time 
“Mammy” and “Daddy,” 
the devoted foster parents 
to the children of the 
South. It is a book for 
“after the war” children, 
where they can view the 
lives of their mothers and 
fathers. 

V A copy of Mammy's 
Reminiscences will he sent 
postpaid to any address on 
receipt of $1.00. 



THIRD THOUSAND 

THE LOVE STORY OF 
ABNER STONE 

By EDWIN CARLILE LITSEY 

i2mo. Gilt top. 170 pages. Price, $ 1 . 20 net. Postage, 9c. 


“ A charming love story straight from 
the heart.” 

Savannah News. 

“ As sweet and tender a story as has 
come our way for a long time.” 

Charleston News and Courier. 

“Not since Allen’s Kentucky Cardinal 
have I read a more beautiful tale.” 

T. C. W. in Impressions. 

‘ ‘ The charm of the tale is its fresh 
feeling for nature, its atmospheric 
quality, and that touch of ideal- 
ism which gives life unfailing 
romance.” 

Hamilton W. Mabie in 

The Outlook. 


“ To say that ‘The author’s descriptive 
powers are of the best’ does scant 
justice to the pure lights, the 
dreamy shades Mr. Litsey imparts 
to his Kentucky scenery.” 

N. T. Times , Saturday Review . 


A most charming story 
of love and nature. 
The author, a Kentuck- 
ian, has caught the true 
spirit of nature, and 
weaves into his beautiful 
descriptions a love story 
so pure, so beautiful, so in- 
tense, that one instinctive- 
ly says: “This is a man's 
life story.” The scene is 
laid in the Blue Grass 
region, while the volume 
is the perfection of the 
printer’s art. 


v A copy of The Love 
Story of Abner Stone will 
be sent postpaid to any ad- 
dress on receipt of $ 1.29 . 













